WE  STE  RN 

EYE  Si 


■JOSEPH" 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Library  of 

ERMA  ARNSTEIN 


UNDER 
WESTERN    EYES 


A   NOVEL 


BY 


JOSEPH    CONRAD 

AUTHOR   OF 

"THE  SECRET  AGENT" 

"NOSTROMO."  ETC 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW     YORK     AND    LONDON 

MCMXI 


COPYRIGHT.    1910.  J911,    BY   HARPER  &    BROTHERS 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 
PUBLISHED   OCTOBER.    1911 


PART    FIRST 


UNDER    WESTERN     EYES 


TO  begin  with,  I  wish  to  disclaim  the  possession  of 
those  high  gifts  of  imagination  and  expression 
which  would  have  enabled  my  pen  to  create  for  the 
reader  the  personality  of  the  man  who  called  himself, 
after  the  Russian  custom,  Cyril,  son  of  Isidor — Kirylo 
Sidorovitch — Razumov. 

If  I  have  ever  had  these  gifts  in  any  sort  of  living 
form,  they  have  been  smothered  out  of  existence  a 
long  time  ago  under  a  wilderness  of  words.  Words, 
as  is  well  known,  are  the  great  foes  of  reality.  I  have 
been  for  many  years  a  teacher  of  languages.  It  is 
an  occupation  which  at  length  becomes  fatal  to  what- 
ever share  of  imagination,  observation,  and  insight  an 
ordinary  person  may  be  heir  to.  To  a  teacher  of  lan- 
guages there  comes  a  time  when  the  world  is  but  a  place 
of  many  words  and  man  appears  a  mere  talking  animal, 
not  much  more  wonderful  than  a  parrot. 

This  being  so,  I  could  not  have  observed  Mr.  Razumov 
or  guessed  at  his  reality  by  the  force  of  insight,  much 
less  have  imagined  him  as  he  was.  Even  to  invent  the 
mere  bald  facts  of  his  life  would  have  been  utterly  be- 
yond my  powers.  But  I  think  that  without  this  declara- 
tion the  readers  of  these  pages  will  be  able  to  detect  in 
the  story  the  marks  of  documentary  evidence.  And  that 
is  perfectly  correct.  It  is  based  on  a  document;  all  I 
have  brought  to  it  is  my  knowledge  of  the  Russian 
language,  which  is  sufficient   for   what    is   attempte4 

3 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

here.  The  document,  of  course,  is  something  in  the 
nature  of  a  journal,  a  diary,  yet  not  exactly  that  in  its 
actual  form.  For  instance,  most  of  it  was  not  written 
up  from  day  to-day,  though  all  the  entries  are  dated. 
Some  of  these  entries  cover  months  of  time  and  extend 
over  dozens  of  pages.  All  the  earlier  part  is  a  retrospect, 
in  a  narrative  form,  relating  to  an  event  which  took 
place  about  a  year  before. 

I  must  mention  that  I  have  lived  for  many  years  in 
Geneva.  A  whole  quarter  of  that  town,  on  account  of 
many  Russians  residing  there,  is  called  La  Petite  Russie 
(Little  Russia).  I  had  a  rather  extensive  connection  in 
Little  Russia  at  that  time.  Yet  I  confess  that  I  have 
no  comprehension  of  the  Russian  character.  The  illogi- 
cality of  their  attitude,  the  arbitrariness  of  their  conclu- 
sions, the  frequency  of  the  exceptional,  should  present 
no  difficulty  to  a  student  of  many  grammars,  but  there 
must  be  something  else  in  the  way,  some  special  human 
trait — one  of  those  subtle  differences  that  are  beyond 
the  ken  of  mere  professors.  What  must  remain  striking 
to  a  teacher  of  languages  is  the  Russians'  extraordinary 
love  of  words.  They  gather  them  up,  they  cherish  them, 
but  they  don't  hoard  them  in  their  breasts;  on  the  con- 
trary, they  are  always  ready  to  pour  them  out  by  the 
hour  or  by  the  night  with  an  enthusiasm,  a  sweeping 
abundance,  with  such  an  aptness  of  application  some- 
times that,  as  in  the  case  of  very  accomplished  parrots, 
one  can't  defend  oneself  from  the  suspicion  that  they 
really  understand  what  they  say.  There  is  a  generosity 
in  their  ardor  of  speech  which  removes  it  as  far  as 
possible  from  common  loquacity;  and  it  is  ever  too 
disconnected  to  be  classed  as  eloquence.  ...  But  I 
must  apologize  for  this  disgression. 

It  would  be  idle  to  inquire  why  Mr.  Razumov  has  left 
this  record  behind  him.  It  is  inconceivable  that  he 
should  have  wished  any  human  eye  to  see  it.  A  mys- 
terious impulse  of  human  nature  comes  into  play  here. 

4 


UNDER    \C^ESTERN    EYES 

Putting  aside  Samuel  Pepys,  who  has  forced  in  that  way 
the  door  of  immortaUty,  innumerable  people — criminals, 
saints,  philosophers,  young  girls,  statesmen,  and  simple 
imbeciles — have  kept  self-revealing  records,  from  vanity, 
no  doubt,  but  also  from  other  more  inscrutable  motives. 
There  must  be  a  wonderful  soothing  power  in  mere  words 
since  so  many  men  have  used  them  for  self-communion. 
Being  myself  a  quiet  individual,  I  take  it  that  what  all 
men  are  really  after  is  some  form,  or  perhaps  only  some 
formula,  of  peace.  Certainly  they  are  crying  loud  enough 
for  it  at  the  present  day.  What  sort  of  peace  Kirylo 
Sidorovitch  Razumov  expected  to  find  in  the  writing  up 
of  his  record  it  passeth  my  understanding  to  guess. 

The  fact  remains  that  he  has  written  it. 

Mr.  Razumov  was  a  tall,  well-proportioned  young  man, 
quite  unusually  dark  for  a  Russian  from  the  Central 
Provinces.  His  good  looks  would  have  been  unques- 
tionable if  it  had  not  been  for  a  peculiar  lack  of  fineness 
in  the  features.  It  was  as  if  a  face  modeled  vigorously 
in  wax  (with  some  approach  even  to  a  classical  correct- 
ness of  type)  had  been  held  close  to  a  fire  till  all  sharpness 
of  line  had  been  lost  in  the  softening  of  the  material. 
But  even  thus  he  was  sufficiently  good-looking.  His 
manner,  too,  was  good.  In  discussion  he  was  easily 
swayed  by  argument  and  authority.  With  his  younger 
compatriots  he  took  the  attitude  of  an  inscrutable  lis- 
tener, a  listener  of  the  kind  that  hears  you  out  intelli- 
gently and  then — just  changes  the  subject. 

This  sort  of  trick,  which  may  arise  either  from  intel- 
lectual insufficiency  or  from  an  imperfect  trust  in  one's 
own  convictions,  procured  for  Mr.  Razumov  a  reputa- 
tion of  profundity.  Among  a  lot  of  exuberant  talkers, 
in  the  habit  of  exhausting  themselves  daily  by  ardent 
discussion,  a  comparatively  taciturn  personality  is 
naturally  credited  with  reserve  power.  By  his  com- 
rades at  the  St.  Petersburg  University,  Kirylo  Sidoro- 
vitch Razumov,  third  year's  student  of  philosophy,  was 

5 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

looked  upon  as  a  strong  nature — ^an  altogether  trust- 
worthy man.  This,  in  a  country  where  an  opinion  may 
be  a  legal  crime  visited  by  death  or  sometimes  by  a  fate 
worse  than  mere  death,  meant  that  he  was  worthy  of 
being  trusted  with  forbidden  opinions.  He  was  liked 
also  for  his  amiability  and  for  his  quiet  readiness  to 
oblige  his  comrades  even  at  the  cost  of  personal  in- 
convenience. 

Mr.  Razumov  was  supposed  to  be  the  son  of  an  Arch- 
priest  and  to  be  protected  by  a  distinguished  nobleman 
— perhaps  of  his  own  distant  province.  But  his  outward 
appearance  accorded  badly  with  such  humble  origin. 
Such  a  descent  was  not  credible.  It  was,  indeed,  sug- 
gested that  Mr.  Razumov  was  the  son  of  an  Archpriest's 
pretty  daughter — which,  of  course,  would  put  a  different 
complexion  on  the  matter.  This  theory  also  rendered 
intelligible  the  protection  of  the  distinguished  nobleman. 
All  this,  however,  had  never  been  investigated  ma- 
liciously or  otherwise.  No  one  knew  or  cared  who  the 
nobleman  in  question  was.  Razumov  received  a  modest 
but  very  sufficient  allowance  from  the  hands  of  an 
obscure  attorney,  who  seemed  to  act  as  his  guardian  in 
some  measure.  Now  and  then  he  appeared  at  some 
professor's  informal  reception.  Apart  from  that  Ra- 
zumov was  not  known  to  have  any  social  relations  in 
the  town.  He  attended  the  obligatory  lectures  regularly 
and  was  considered  by  the  authorities  as  a  very  promis- 
ing student.  He  worked  at  home  in  the  manner  of  a 
man  who  means  to  get  on,  but  did  not  shut  himself  up 
severely  for  that  purpose.  He  was  always  accessible, 
and  there  was  nothing  secret  or  reserved  in  his  life. 


THE  origin  of  Mr.  Razumov's  record  is  connected  with 
an  event  characteristic  of  modern  Russia  in  the  actual 
fact:  the  assassination  of  a  prominent  statesman — and 
still  more  characteristic  of  the  moral  corruption  of  an 
oppressed  society  where  the  noblest  aspirations  of  hu- 
manity, the  desire  of  freedom,  an  ardent  patriotism,  the 
love  of  justice,  the  sense  of  pity,  and  even  the  fidelity  of 
simple  minds  are  prostituted  to  the  lusts  of  hate  and  fear, 
the  inseparable  companions  of  an  uneasy  despotism. 

The  fact  alluded  to  above  is  the  successful  attempt  on 

the  life  of  Mr.  de  P ,  the  President  of  the  notorious 

Repressive  Commission  of  some  years  ago,  the  Minister 
of  State  invested  with  extraordinary  powers.  The  news- 
papers made  noise  enough  about  that  fanatical,  narrow- 
chested  figure  in  gold-laced  uniform,  with  a  face  of 
crumpled  parchment,  insipid,  bespectacled  eyes,  and 
the  cross  of  the  Order  of  St.  Procopius  hung  under  the 
skinny  throat.  For  a  time,  it  may  be  remembered,  not 
a  month  passed  without  his  portrait  appearing  in  some 
one  of  the  illustrated  papers  of  Europe.  He  served  the 
monarchy  by  imprisoning,  exiling,  or  sending  to  the 
gallows  men  and  women,  young  and  old,  with  an  equable, 
unwearied  industry.  In  his  mystic  acceptance  of  the 
principle  of  autocracy  he  was  bent  on  extirpating  from 
the  land  every  vestige  of  anything  that  resembled  free- 
dom in  public  institutions;  and  in  his  ruthless  persecu- 
tion of  the  rising  generation  he  seemed  to  aim  at  the 
destruction  of  the  very  hope  of  liberty  itself. 

It  is  said  that  this  execrated  personality  had  not 
2  7 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

enough  imagination  to  be  aware  of  the  hate  he  inspired. 
It  is  hardly  credible;  but  it  is  a  fact  that  he  took  very- 
few  precautions  for  his  safety.  In  the  preamble  of  a 
certain  famous  State  paper  he  had  declared  once  that 
"the  thought  of  liberty  has  never  existed  in  the  Act  of 
the  Creator.  From  the  multitude  of  men's  counsel 
nothing  could  come  but  revolt  and  disorder;  and  revolt 
and  disorder  in  a  world  created  for  obedience  and 
stability  is  sin.  It  was  not  Reason,  but  Authority,  which 
expressed  the  Divine  Intention.  God  was  the  Autocrat 
of  the  Universe.  ..."  It  may  be  that  the  man  who 
made  this  declaration  believed  that  Heaven  itself  was 
bound  to  protect  him  in  his  remorseless  defense  of  au- 
tocracy on  this  earth. 

No  doubt  the  vigilance  of  the  police  saved  him  many 
times;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  when  his  appointed  fate 
overtook  him,  the  competent  authorities  could  not  have 
given  him  any  warning.  They  had  no  knowledge  of  any 
conspiracy  against  the  Minister's  life,  had  no  hint  of  any 
plot  through  their  usual  channels  of  information,  had 
seen  no  signs,  were  aware  of  no  suspicious  movements 
or  dangerous  persons. 

Mr.  de  P was  being  driven  toward  the  railway 

station  in  a  two-horse  uncovered  sleigh  with  footman 
and  coachman  on  the  box.  Snow  had  been  falling  all 
night,  making  the  roadway,  uncleared  as  yet  at  this  early 
hour,  very  heavy  for  the  horses.  It  was  still  falling 
thickly.  But  the  sleigh  must  have  been  observed  and 
marked  down.  As  it  drew  over  to  the  left  before  taking 
a  turn,  the  footman  noticed  a  peasant  walking  slowly  on 
the  edge  of  the  pavement  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets 
of  his  sheepskin  coat  and  his  shoulders  hunched  up  to  his 
ears  under  the  falling  snow.  On  being  overtaken  this 
peasant  suddenly  faced  about  and  swung  his  arm.  In  an 
instant  there  was  a  terrible  shock,  a  detonation  muffled  in 
the  multitude  of  snowflakes;  both  horses  lay  dead  and 
mangled  on  the  ground  and  the  coachman,  with  a  shrill 

8 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

cry,  had  fallen  ofE  the  box  mortally  wounded.  The  foot- 
man (who  survived)  had  no  time  to  see  the  face  of  the 
man  in  the  sheepskin  coat.  After  throwing  the  bomb 
this  last  got  away,  but  it  is  supposed  that,  seeing  a  lot  of 
people  surging  up  on  all  sides  of  him  in  the  falling  snow, 
and  all  running  toward  the  scene  of  the  explosion,  he 
thought  it  safer  to  turn  back  with  them. 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  an  excited  crowd  assembled 
round  the  sledge.  The  Minister-President,  getting  out 
unhurt  into  the  deep  snow,  stood  near  the  groaning 
coachman  and  addressed  the  people  repeatedly  in  his 
weak,  colorless  voice,  **  I  beg  of  you  to  keep  off.  For  the 
love  of  God,  I  beg  of  you  good  people  to  keep  off." 

It  was  then  that  a  tall  young  man  who  had  remained 
standing  perfectly  still  within  a  carriage  gateway,  two 
houses  lower  down,  stepped  out  into  the  street  and,  walk- 
ing up  rapidly,  flung  another  bomb  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd.  It  actually  struck  the  Minister- President  on  the 
shoulder  as  he  stooped  over  his  dying  servant,  then, 
falling  between  his  feet,  exploded  with  a  terrific  concen- 
trated violence,  striking  him  dead  to  the  ground,  finish- 
ing the  wounded  man  and  practically  annihilating  the 
empty  sledge  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  With  a  yell  of 
horror  the  crowd  broke  up  and  fled  in  all  directions,  except 
for  those  who  fell  dead  or  dying  where  they  stood  nearest 
to  the  Minister- President,  and  one  or  two  others  who  did 
not  fall  till  they  had  run  on  a  little  way. 

The  first  explosion  had  brought  together  a  crowd  as  if 
by  enchantment,  the  second  made  as  swiftly  a  solitude 
in  the  street  for  hundreds  of  yards  in  each  direction. 
Through  the  falling  snow  people  looked  from  afar  at  the 
small  heap  of  dead  bodies  lying  upon  one  another  near  the 
carcasses  of  the  two  horses.  Nobody  dared  to  approach 
till  some  Cossacks  of  a  street  patrol  galloped  up  and, 
dismounting,  began  to  turn  over  the  dead.  Among  the 
innocent  victims  of  the  second  explosion  laid  out  on  the 
pavement  there  was  a  body  dressed  in  a  peasant's  sheep- 

9 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

skin  coat;  but  the  face  was  unrecognizable,  there  was 
absolutely  nothing  found  in  the  pockets  of  its  poor  cloth- 
ing, and  it  was  the  only  one  whose  identity  was  never 
established. 

That  day  Mr.  Razumov  got  up  at  his  usual  hour  and 
spent  the  morning  within  the  university  buildings  listen- 
ing to  the  lectures  and  working  for  some  time  in  the 
library.  He  heard  the  first  vague  rumor  of  something 
in  the  way  of  bomb-throwing  at  the  table  of  the  students* 
ordinary,  where  he  was  accustomed  to  eat  his  two-o'clock 
dinner.  But  this  rumor  was  made  up  of  mere  whispers, 
and  this  was  Russia,  where  it  is  not  always  safe,  for  a 
student  especially,  to  appear  too  much  interested  in 
certain  kinds  of  whispers.  Razumov  was  one  of  those 
men  who,  living  in  a  period  of  mental  and  political  un- 
rest, keep  an  instinctive  hold  on  normal,  practical,  every- 
day life.  He  was  aware  of  the  emotional  tension  of  his 
time;  he  even  responded  to  it  in  an  indefinite  way.  But 
his  main  concern  was  with  his  work,  his  studies,  and 
with  his  own  future. 

Officially,  and  in  fact  without  a  family  (for  the 
daughter  of  the  Archpriest  had  long  been  dead),  no 
home  influences  had  shaped  his  opinions  or  his  feelings. 
He  was  as  lonely  in  the  world  as  a  man  swimming  in 
the  deep  sea.  The  word  Razumov  was  the  mere  label 
of  a  solitary  individuality.  There  were  no  Razumovs 
belonging  to  him  anywhere.  His  closest  parentage  was 
defined  in  the  statement  that  he  was  a  Russian.  What- 
ever good  he  expected  from  life  would  be  given  to  or 
withheld  from  his  hopes  by  that  connection  alone.  This 
immense  parentage  suffered  from  the  throes  of  internal 
dissensions,  and  he  shrank  mentally  from  the  fray  as 
a  good-natured  man  may  shrink  from  taking  definite 
sides  in  a  violent  family  quarrel. 

Razumov,  going  home,  reflected  that,  having  prepared 
all  the  matters  of  the  forthcoming  examination,  he  could 
|iow  4evote  hjs  tim^  to  the  subject  of  tfie  pri?e  ^ssay, 

19 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

He  hankered  after  the  silver  medal.  The  prize  was 
offered  by  the  Ministry  of  Education;  the  names  of  the 
competitors  would  be  submitted  to  the  Minister  him- 
self. The  mere  fact  of  trying  would  be  considered 
meritorious  in  the  higher  quarters,  and  the  possessor 
of  the  prize  would  have  a  claim  to  an  administrative  ap- 
pointment of  the  better  sort  after  he  had  taken  his 
degree.  The  student  Razumov,  in  an  access  of  elation, 
forgot  the  dangers  menacing  the  stability  of  the  in- 
stitutions that  give  rewards  and  appointments.  But 
remembering  the  medalist  of  the  year  before,  Razumov, 
the  young  man  of  no  parentage,  was  sobered.  He  and 
some  others  happened  to  be  assembled  in  their  com- 
rade's rooms  at  the  very  time  when  that  last  received 
the  official  advice  of  his  success.  He  was  a  quiet,  un- 
assuming young  man.  "Forgive  me,"  he  had  said, 
with  a  faint  apologetic  smile  and  taking  up  his  cap, 
"I  am  going  out  to  order  up  some  wine.  But  I  must 
first  send  a  telegram  to  my  folks  at  home.  I  say! 
Won't  the  old  people  make  it  a  festive  time  for  the 
neighbors  for  twenty  miles  around  our  place!" 

Razumov  thought  there  was  nothing  of  that  sort  for 
him  in  the  world.  His  success  would  matter  to  no  one. 
But  he  felt  no  bitterness  against  the  nobleman,  his  pro- 
tector, who  was  not  a  provincial  magnate,  as  was  gen- 
erally supposed.     He  was,   in  fact,   nobody  less  than 

Prince  K ,  once  a  great  and  splendid  figure  in  the 

world,  and  now,  his  day  being  over,  a  senator  and  a 
gouty  subject  living  in  a  still  splendid  but  more  do- 
mestic manner.  He  had  some  young  children,  and  a 
wife  as  aristocratic  and  proud  as  himself. 

In  all  his  life  Razumov  was  allowed  only  once  to  come 
into  personal  contact  with  the  Prince. 

It  had  the  air  of  a  chance  meeting  in  the  little  attor- 
ney's office.  One  day  Razumov,  coming  in  by  appoint- 
ment, found  a  stranger  standing  there  —  a  tall,  aristo- 
cratic-looking personage  with  silky,  gray  side-whiskers. 

II 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

The  bald-headed,  sly,  little  lawyer-fellow  called  out: 
"Come  in — come  in,  Mr.  Razumov!"  with  a  sort  of 
ironic  heartiness.  Then,  turning  deferentially  to  the 
stranger  with  the  grand  air:  "A  ward  of  mine,  your 
Excellency.  One  of  the  most  promising  students  of  his 
faculty  in  the  St.  Petersburg  University." 

To  his  intense  surprise  Razumov  saw  a  white,  shapely 
hand  extended  to  him.  He  took  it  in  great  confusion 
(it  was  soft  and  passive),  and  heard  at  the  same  time  a 
condescending  murmur  in  which  he  caught  only  the 
words,  "satisfactory"  and  "persevere."  But  the  most 
amazing  thing  of  all  was  to  feel  suddenly  a  distinct 
pressure  of  the  white,  shapely  hand  just  before  it  was 
withdrawn  —  a  light  pressure  like  a  secret  sign.  The 
emotion  of  it  was  terrible.  Razumov's  heart  seemed 
to  leap  into  his  throat.  When  he  raised  his  eyes  the 
aristocratic  personage,  motioning  the  little  lawyer  aside, 
had  opened  the  door  and  was  going  out. 

The  attorney  rummaged  among  the  papers  on  his 
desk  for  a  time.  "Do  you  know  who  that  was?"  he 
asked,  suddenly. 

Razumov,  whose  heart  was  thumping  hard  yet,  shook 
his  head  in  silence. 

"That   was    Prince    K .     You   wonder   what    he 

could  be  doing  in  the  hole  of  a  poor  legal  rat  like  my- 
self— eh  ?  These  awfully  great  people  have  'their  senti- 
mental curiosities  like  common  sinners.  But  if  I  were 
you,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,"  he  continued,  leering  and  lay- 
ing a  peculiar  emphasis  on  the  patronymic,  "I  wouldn't 
boast  at  large  of  the  introduction.  It  would  not  be 
prudent,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch.  Oh,  dear,  no!  It  would 
be,  in  fact,  dangerous  for  your  future." 

The  young  man's  ears  burned  like  fire;  his  sight  was 
dim.  "That  man!"  Razumov  was  saying  to  himself. 
"He!" 

Henceforth  it  was  by  this  monosyllable  that  Mr. 
Razumov  got  into  the  habit  of  referring  mentally  to  the 

12 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

stranger  with  gray,  silky  side-whiskers.  From  that 
time,  too,  when  walking  in  the  more  fashionable  quar- 
ters, he  noted  with  interest  the  magnificent  horses  and 

carriages  with  Prince  K 's  liveries  on  the  box.    Once 

he  saw  the  Princess  get  out — she  was  shopping — followed 
by  two  girls,  of  which  one  was  nearly  a  head  taller  than 
the  other.  Their  fair  hair  hung  loose  down  their  backs 
in  the  English  style;  they  had  merry  eyes;  their  coats, 
muffs,  and  little  fur  caps  were  exactly  alike,  and  their 
cheeks  and  noses  were  tinged  a  cheerful  pink  by  the 
frost.  They  crossed  the  pavement  in  front  of  him,  and 
Razumov  went  on  his  way  smiling  shyly  to  himself. 
"  His  "  daughters.  They  resembled  "  Him."  The  young 
man  felt  a  glow  of  warm  friendliness  toward  these  girls 
who  would  never  know  of  his  existence.  Presently  they 
would  marry  generals  or  Kammerherrs  and  have  girls 
and  boys  of  their  own,  who,  perhaps,  would  be  aware 
of  him  as  a  celebrated  old  professor,  decorated,  possibly 
a  Privy-Councilor,  one  of  the  glories  of  Russia — nothing 
more! 

But  a  celebrated  professor  was  a  somebody.  Dis- 
tinction would  convert  the  label  Razumov  into  an  hon- 
ored name.  There  was  nothing  strange  in  the  student 
Razumov's  wish  for  distinction.  A  man's  real  life  is 
that  accorded  to  him  in  the  thoughts  of  other  men  by 
reason  of  respect  or  natural  love.     Returning  home  on 

the  day  of  the  attempt  on  Mr.  de  P 's  life,  Razumov 

resolved  to  have  a  good  try  for  the  Silver  Medal. 

Climbing  slowly  the  four  flights  of  the  dark,  dirty 
staircase  in  the  house  where  he  had  his  lodgings,  he  felt 
confident  of  success.  The  winner's  name  would  be  pub- 
lished in  the  papers  on  New- Year's  day.  And  at  the 
thought  that  "He"  would  most  probably  read  it  there, 
Razumov  stopped  short  on  the  stairs  for  an  instant,  then 
went  on  smiling  faintly  at  his  own  emotion.  "This  is 
but  a  shadow,"  he  said  to  himself,  "but  the  medal  is  a 
solid  beginning." 

13 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

With  those  ideas  of  industry  in  his  head,  the  warmth  of 
his  room  was  agreeable  and  encouraging.  *'I  shall  put 
in  four  hours  of  good  work,"  he  thought.  But  no  sooner 
had  he  closed  the  door  than  he  was  horribly  startled. 
All  black  against  the  usual  tall  stove  of  white  tiles  gleam- 
ing in  the  dusk  stood  a  strange  figure  wearing  a  skirted, 
close-fitting,  brown-cloth  coat  strapped  round  the  waist, 
in  long  boots  and  with  a  little  Astrakhan  cap  on  its  head. 
It  loomed  lithe  and  martial.  Razumov  was  utterly  con- 
founded. It  was  only  when  the  figure,  advancing  two 
paces,  asked  in  an  untroubled,  grave  voice  if  the  outer 
door  was  closed,  that  he  regained  his  power  of  speech. 

"Haldin!  .  .  .  Victor  Victorovitch !  ...  Is  that  you? 
.  .  .  Yes.  The  outer  door  is  shut  all  right.  But  this 
is  indeed  unexpected." 

Victor  Haldin,  a  student  older  than  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries at  the  University,  was  not  one  of  the  in- 
dustrious set.  He  was  hardly  ever  seen  at  lectures ;  the 
authorities  had  marked  him  as  "  restless  "  and  **  unsound  " 
— very  bad  notes.  But  he  had  a  great  personal  pres- 
tige with  his  comrades,  and  influenced  their  thoughts. 
Razumov  had  never  been  intimate  with  him.  They  had 
met  from  time  to  time  at  gatherings  in  other  students* 
houses.  They  had  even  had  a  discussion  together — one 
of  those  discussions  on  first  principles  dear  to  the  san- 
guine minds  of  youth. 

Razumov  wished  the  man  had  chosen  some  other  time 
to  come  for  a  chat.  He  felt  in  good  trim  to  tackle  the 
prize  essay.  But,  as  Haldin  could  not  be  slightingly  dis- 
missed, Razumov  adopted  the  tone  of  hospitality,  asking 
him  to  sit  down  and  smoke. 

*'Kirylo  Sidorovitch,"  said  the  other,  "we  are  not, 
perhaps,  in  exactly  the  same  camp.  Your  judgment  is 
more  philosophical.  You  are  a  man  of  few  words,  but  I 
haven't  met  anybody  who  dared  to  doubt  the  generos- 
ity of  your  sentiments.  There  is  a  solidity  about  your 
character  which  cannot  exist  without  courage." 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Razumov  felt  flattered  and  began  to  mutter  shyly 
something  about  being  very  glad  of  his  good  opinion, 
when  Haldin  raised  his  hand. 

"This  is  what  I  was  saying  to  myself,"  he  continued, 
"as  I  dodged  in  the  woodyard  down  by  the  river-side. 
'He  has  a  strong  character,  this  young  man,*  I  said  to 
myself.  *He  does  not  throw  his  soul  to  the  winds.' 
Your  reserve  has  always  fascinated  me,  Kirylo  Sidoro- 
vitch.  So  I  tried  to  remember  your  address.  But  look 
here — it  was  a  piece  of  luck.  Your  dvomik  was  away 
from  the  gate  talking  to  a  sleigh-driver  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street.  I  met  no  one  on  the  stairs,  not  a  soul. 
As  I  came  up  to  your  floor  I  caught  sight  of  your  land- 
lady coming  out  of  your  rooms.  But  she  did  not  see  me. 
She  crossed  the  landing  to  her  own  side,  and  then  I 
slipped  in.  I  have  been  here  two  hours  expecting  you  to 
come  in  every  moment." 

Razumov  had  listened  in  astonishment,  but  before  he 
could  open  his  mouth  Haldin  added,  speaking  deliber- 
ately:  "It  was  I  who  removed  De  P this  morning." 

Razumov  kept  down  a  cry  of  dismay.  The  sentiment 
of  his  life  being  utterly  ruined  by  this  contact  with  such  a 
crime  expressed  itself  quaintly  by  a  sort  of  half-derisive 
mental  exclamation:    "There  goes  my  Silver  Medal!" 

Haldin  continued,  after  waiting  awhile : 

"You  say  nothing,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch!  I  understand 
your  silence.  To  be  sure,  I  cannot  expect  you,  with  your 
frigid  English  manner,  to  embrace  me.  But  never  mind 
your  manners.  You  have  enough  heart  to  have  heard 
the  sound  of  weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth  this  man 
raised  in  the  land.  That  would  be  enough  to  get  over 
any  philosophical  hopes.  He  was  uprooting  the  tender 
plant.  He  had  to  be  stopped.  He  was  a  dangerous 
man — a  convinced  man.  Three  more  years  of  his  work 
would  have  put  us  back  fifty  years  into  bondage — and 
look  at  all  the  lives  wasted,  at  all  the  souls  lost  in  that 
time!" 

15 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

His  curt,  self-confident  voice  suddenly  lost  its  ring,  and 
it  was  in  a  dull  tone  that  he  added:  "Yes,  brother,  I 
have  killed  him.     It's  weary  work." 

Razumov  had  sunk  into  a  chair.  Every  moment  he 
expected  a  crowd  of  policemen  to  rush  in.  There  must 
have  been  thousands  of  them  out  looking  for  that  man 
walking  up  and  down  in  his  room.  Haldin  was  talking 
again  in  a  restrained,  steady  voice.  Now  and  then  he 
flourished  an  arm,  slowly,  without  excitement. 

He  told  Razumov  how  he  had  brooded  for  a  year; 
how  he  had  not  slept  properly  for  weeks.  He  and 
"Another"  had  a  warning  of  the  Minister's  movements 
from  "a  certain  person"  late  the  evening  before.  He 
and  that  "Another"  prepared  their  "engines"  and  re- 
solved to  have  no  sleep  till  "the  deed"  was  done.  They 
walked  the  streets  under  the  falling  snow  with  the 
"engines"  on  them,  exchanging  not  a  word  the  livelong 
night.  When  they  happened  to  meet  a  police  patrol 
they  took  each  other  by  the  arm  and  pretended  to  be  a 
couple  of  peasants  on  the  spree.  They  reeled  and  talked 
in  drunken,  hoarse  voices.  Except  for  these  strange  out- 
breaks they  kept  silence,  moving  on  ceaselessly.  Their 
plans  had  been  previously  arranged.  At  daybreak  they 
made  their  way  to  the  spot  which  they  knew  the  sledge 
must  pass.  When  it  appeared  in  sight  they  exchanged  a 
muttered  good-by  and  separated.  The  ' '  other ' '  remained 
at  the  corner;  Haldin  took  up  a  position  a  little  farther 
up  the  street.  .  .  . 

After  throwing  his  "engine"  he  ran  off,  and  in  a 
moment  was  overtaken  by  the  panic  -  struck  people 
flying  away  from  the  spot  after  the  second  explosion. 
They  were  wild  with  terror.  He  was  jostled  once  or 
twice.  He  slowed  down  for  the  rush  to  pass  him,  and 
then  turned  to  the  left  into  a  narrow  street.  There  he 
was  alone. 

He  marveled  at  this  immediate  escape.  The  work 
was  done.     He  could  hardly  believe  it.     He  fought  with 

16 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

an  almost  irresistible  longing  to  lie  down  on  the  pave- 
ment and  sleep.  But  this  sort  of  faintness — a  drowsy 
faintness — passed  off  quickly.  He  walked  faster,  mak- 
ing his  way  to  one  of  the  poorer  parts  of  the  town  in 
order  to  look  up  Ziemianitch. 

This  Ziemianitch,  Razumov  understood,  was  a  sort  of 
town  peasant  who  had  got  on — owner  of  a  small  number 
of  sledges  and  horses  for  hire.  Haldin  paused  in  his 
narrative  to  exclaim: 

"A  bright  spirit!  A  hardy  soul!  The  best  driver  in 
St.  Petersburg.  He  has  a  team  of  three  horses  there.  .  .  . 
Ah!  he's  a  fellow!" 

This  man  had  declared  himself  willing  to  take  out 
safely,  at  any  time,  one  or  two  persons  to  the  second  or 
third  railway  station  on  one  of  the  southern  lines.  But 
there  had  been  no  time  to  warn  him  the  night  before. 
His  usual  haunt  seemed  to  be  a  low-class  eating-house 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  When  Haldin  got  there 
the  man  was  not  to  be  found.  He  was  not  expected  to 
turn  up  again  till  the  evening.  Haldin  wandered  away 
restlessly. 

He  saw  the  gate  of  a  woodyard  open,  and  went  in  to 
get  out  of  the  wind  which  swept  the  bleak,  broad 
thoroughfares.  The  great  rectangular  piles  of  cut  wood 
loaded  with  snow  resembled  the  huts  of  a  village.  At 
first  the  watchman,  who  discovered  him  crouching 
among  them,  talked  in  a  friendly  manner.  He  was  a 
dried-up  old  man  wearing  two  ragged  army  coats,  one 
over  the  other;  his  wizened  little  face,  tied  up  under 
the  jaw  and  over  the  ears  in  a  dirty  red  handkerchief, 
looked  comical.  Presently  he  grew  sulky,  and  then  all  at 
once,  without  rhyme  or  reason,  began  to  shout  furiously : 

"Aren't  you  ever  going  to  clear  out  of  this,  you 
loafer?  We  know  all  about  factory  hands  of  your  sort. 
A  big,  strong,  young  chap!  You  aren't  even  drunk! 
What  do  you  want  here  ?  You  don't  frighten  us.  Take 
yourself  and  your  ugly  eyes  away." 

17 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Haldin  stopped  before  the  sitting  Razumov.  His 
supple  figure,  with  the  white  forehead,  above  which  the 
fair  hair  stood  straight  up,  had  an  aspect  of  lofty  daring. 

"He  did  not  like  my  eyes,"  he  said.  "And  so  .  .  . 
here  I  am." 

Razumov  made  an  effort  to  speak  calmly. 

"  But  pardon  me,  Victor  Victorovitch.  We  know  each 
other  so  little.  ...  I  don't  see  why  you  .  .  .?" 

"Confidence,"  said  Haldin. 

This  word  sealed  Razumov's  lips  as  if  a  hand  had  been 
clapped  on  his  mouth.  His  brain  seethed  with  argu- 
ments. 

"And  so — here  you  are,"  he  muttered,  through  his 
teeth. 

The  other  did  not  detect  the  tone  of  anger.  Never 
suspected  it. 

"Yes.  And  nobody  knows  I  am  here.  You  are  the 
last  person  that  could  be  suspected — should  I  get  caught. 
That's  an  advantage,  you  see.  And  then — speaking  to 
a  superior  mind  like  yours — I  can  well  say  all  the  truth. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  you — you  have  no  one  belonging 
to  you — no  ties,  no  one  to  suffer  for  it  if  this  came  out 
by  some  means.  There  have  been  enough  ruined  Rus- 
sian homes  as  it  is.  But  I  don't  see  how  my  passage 
through  your  rooms  can  be  ever  known.  If  I  should  be 
got  hold  of  I'll  know  how  to  keep  silent — no  matter  what 
they  may  be  pleased  to  do  to  me,"  he  added,  grimly. 

He  began  to  walk  again,  while  Razumov  sat  still 
appalled. 

"  You  thought  that — "he  faltered  out,  almost  sick  with 
indignation. 

"Yes,  Razumov.  Yes,  brother.  Some  day  you  shall 
help  to  build.  You  suppose  that  I  am  a  terrorist,  now — 
a  destructor  of  what  is.  But  consider  that  the  true  destroy- 
ers are  they  who  destroy  the  spirit  of  progress  and  truth, 
not  the  avengers  who  merely  kill  the  bodies  of  persecu- 
tors of  human  dignity.  Men  like  me  are  necessary  to  make 

i8 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

room  for  self-contained,  thinking  men  like  you.  Well,  we 
have  made  the  sacrifice  of  our  lives,  but  all  the  same  I  want 
to  escape  if  it  can  be  done.  It  is  not  my  life  I  want  to 
save,  but  my  power  to  do.  I  won't  live  idle.  Oh  no! 
Don't  make  any  mistake,  Razumov.  Men  like  me  are 
rare.  And,  besides,  an  example  like  this  is  more  awful 
to  oppressors  when  the  perpetrator  vanished  without  a 
trace.  They  sit  in  their  offices  and  palaces  and  quake. 
All  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  help  me  to  vanish.  No  great 
matter  that.  Only  to  go  by  -  and  -  by  and  see  Ziemia- 
nitch  for  me  at  that  place  where  I  went  this  morning. 
Just  tell  him  *  He  whom  you  know  wants  a  well-horsed 
sledge  to  pull  up  half  an  hour  after  midnight,  at  the 
seventh  lamp-post  on  the  left,  counting  from  the  upper 
end  of  Karabelnaya.  If  nobody  gets  in,  the  sledge  is  to 
run  round  a  block  or  two,  so  as  to  come  back  past  the 
same  spot  in  ten  minutes'  time.'" 

Razumov  wondered  why  he  had  not  cut  short  that 
talk  and  told  this  man  to  go  away  Jong  before.  Was  it 
weakness  or  what  ? 

He  concluded  that  it  was  a  sound  instinct.  Haldin 
must  have  been  seen.  It  was  impossible  that  some  peo- 
ple should  not  have  noticed  the  face  and  appearance  of 
the  man  who  threw  the  bomb.  Haldin  was  a  noticeable 
person.  The  police  in  their  thousands  must  have  had 
his  description  within  the  hour.  With  every  moment 
the  danger  grew.  Sent  out  to  wander  in  the  streets,  he 
could  not  escape  being  caught  in  the  end. 

The  police  would  very  soon  find  out  all  about  him.  They 
would  set  about  discovering  a  conspiracy.  Everybody 
Haldin  had  ever  known  would  be  in  the  greatest  danger. 
Unguarded  expressions,  little  facts  in  themselves  inno- 
cent, would  be  counted  for  crimes.  Razumov  remem- 
bered certain  words  he  had  said,  the  speeches  he  had 
listened  to,  the  harmless  gatherings  he  had  attended — 
it  was  almost  impossible  for  a  student  to  keep  out  of  that 
Sprt  of  thing  without  becoming  suspect  to  his  comr^d^s, 

^9 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Razumov  saw  himself  shut  up  in  a  fortress,  worried, 
badgered,  perhaps  ill-used.  He  saw  himself  deported 
by  an  administrative  order,  his  life  broken,  ruined,  and 
robbed  of  all  hope.  He  saw  himself — at  best — leading 
a  miserable  existence  under  police  supervision  in  some 
small,  far-away  provincial  town,  without  friends  to 
assist  his  necessities  or  even  take  any  steps  to  alleviate 
his  lot — as  others  had.  Others  had  fathers,  mothers, 
brothers,  relations,  connections,  friends  to  move  heaven 
and  earth  on  their  behalf — he  had  no  one.  The  very 
officials  that  sentenced  him  some  morning  would  forget 
his  existence  before  sunset. 

He  saw  his  youth  pass  away  from  him  in  misery  and 
half  starvation — his  strength  give  way,  his  mind  become 
an  abject  thing.  He  saw  himself  creeping,  broken-down 
and  shabby,  about  the  streets — dying  unattended  in 
some  filthy  hole  of  a  room  or  on  the  sordid  bed  of  a 
government  hospital. 

He  shuddered.  Then  a  sort  of  bitter  calmness  came 
over  him.  It  was  best  to  keep  this  man  out  of  the 
streets  till  he  could  be  got  rid  of  with  some  chance  of 
escaping.  That  was  the  best  that  could  be  done. 
Razumov,  of  course,  felt  the  safety  of  his  lonely  exist- 
ence to  be  permanently  endangered.  This  evening's 
doings  could  turn  up  against  him  at  any  time  as  long  as 
this  man  lived  and  the  present  institutions  endured. 
They  appeared  to  him  rational  and  indestructible  at 
that  moment.  They  had  a  force  of  harmony  in  con- 
trast with  the  horrible  discord  of  this  man's  presence. 
He  hated  the  man.     He  said,  quietly: 

"Yes.  Of  course  I  will  go.  You  must  give  me  pre- 
cise directions,  and  for  the  rest — depend  on  me." 

"Ah!  You  are  a  fellow!  Collected — cool  as  a  cucum- 
ber. A  regular  Englishman.  Where  did  you  get  your 
soul  from?  There  aren't  many  like  you.  Look  here, 
brother !  Men  like  me  leave  no  posterity,  but  their  souls 
are  not  lost.     No  man's  soul  is  ever  lost.     It  works  for 

20 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

itself — or  else  where  would  be  the  sense  of  self-sacrifice, 
of  martyrdom,  of  conviction,  of  faith — the  labors  of  the 
soul?  What  will  become  of  my  soul  when  I  die  in  the 
way  I  must  die — soon — very  soon,  perhaps?  It  shall 
not  perish.  Don't  make  a  mistake,  Razumov.  This  is 
not  murder — it  is  war,  war.  My  spirit  shall  go  on 
warring  in  some  Russian  body  till  all  falsehood  is  swept 
out  of  the  world.  The  modern  civilization  is  false,  but 
a  new  revelation  shall  come  out  of  Russia.  Ha!  you 
say  nothing.  You  are  a  skeptic.  I  respect  your  philo- 
sophical skepticism,  Razumov,  but  don't  touch  the  soul — 
the  Russian  soul  that  lives  in  all  of  us;  it  has  a  future. 
It  has  a  mission,  I  tell  you,  or  else  why  should  I  have 
been  moved  to  do  this — reckless — like  a  butcher — in 
the  middle  of  all  these  innocent  people  —  scattering 
death— I!     I!  ...  I  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly!" 

"Not  so  loud,"  warned  Razumov,  harshly. 

Haldin  sat  down  abruptly,  and,  leaning  his  head  on 
his  folded  arms,  burst  into  tears.  He  wept  for  a  long 
time.  The  dusk  had  deepened  in  the  room.  Razu- 
mov, motionless  in  somber  wonder,  listened  to  the 
sobs. 

The  other  raised  his  head,  got  up,  and  with  an  effort 
mastered  his  voice. 

**  Yes.  Men  like  me  leave  no  posterity,"  he  repeated, 
in  a  subdued  tone.  "I  have  a  sister,  though.  She's 
with  my  old  mother.  I  persuaded  them  to  go  abroad 
this  year — thank  God!  Not  a  bad  little  girl — my 
sister.  She  has  the  most  trustful  eyes  of  any  human 
being  that  ever  walked  this  earth.  She  will  marry  well, 
I  hope.  She  may  have  children — sons  perhaps.  Look 
at  me.  My  father  was  a  government  official  in  the  prov- 
inces. He  had  a  little  land,  too.  A  simple  servant  of 
God — a  true  Russian  in  his  way.  His  was  the  soul  of 
obedience.  But  I  am  not  like  him.  They  say  I  re- 
semble my  mother's  eldest  brother,  an  officer.  They 
shot  him  in  '28.     Under  Nicholas  you  know.     Haven't 

21 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

I  told  you  that  this  is  war,  war.  .  .  .  But  God  of  Justice ! 
This  is  weary  work." 

Razumov,  in  his  chair,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand, 
spoke  as  if  from  the  bottom  of  an  abyss. 

"  You  beheve  in  God,  Haldin  ?" 

"There  you  go  catching  at  words  that  are  wrung  from 
one.  What  does  it  matter?  What  was  it  the  Eng- 
lishman said:  'There  is  a  divine  soul  in  things.  .  .  .' 
Devil  take  him — I  don't  remember  now.  But  he  spoke 
the  truth.  When  the  day  of  you  thinkers  comes  don't 
you  forget  what's  divine  in  the  Russian  soul — and  that's 
resignation.  Respect  that  in  your  intellectual  restless- 
ness, and  don't  let  your  arrogant  wisdom  spoil  its  mes- 
sage to  the  world.  I  am  speaking  to  you  now  like  a 
man  with  a  rope  round  his  neck.  What  do  you  imagine 
lam?  A  being  in  revolt  ?  No.  It's  you  thinkers  who 
are  in  everlasting  revolt.  I  am  one  of  the  resigned. 
When  the  necessity  of  this  heavy  work  came  to  me,  and 
I  understood  that  it  had  to  be  done — what  did  I  do? 
Did  I  exult?  Did  I  take  pride  in  my  purpose?  Did  I 
try  to  weigh  its  worth  and  consequences?  No!  I  was 
resigned.     I  thought  'God's  will  be  done.'" 

He  threw  himself  full  length  on  Razumov's  bed,  and, 
putting  the  backs  of  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  remained 
perfectly  motionless  and  silent.  Not  even  the  sound  of 
his  breathing  could  be  heard.  The  dead  stillness  of  the 
room  remained  undisturbed  till  in  the  darkness  Raziimov 
said,  in  a  gloomy  murmur* 

"Haldin." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  other,  readily,  quite  invisible 
now  on  the  bed  and  without  the  slightest  stir. 

"Isn't  it  time  for  me  to  start?" 

"Yes,  brother,"  the  other  was  heard,  lying  still  in  the 
darkness  as  though  he  were  talking  in  his  sleep.  "The 
time  has  come  to  put  fate  to  the  test." 

He  paused,  then  gave  a  few  lucid  directions  in  the 
quiet,  impersonal  voice  of  a  man  in  a  trance.     Razumov 

22 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

made  ready  without  a  word  of  answer.  As  he  was  leav- 
ing the  room,  the  voice  on  the  bed  said  after  him: 

"Go  with  God,  thou  silent  soul." 

On  the  landing,  moving  softly,  Razumov  locked  the 
door  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

3 


II 


THE  words  and  events  of  that  evening  must  have 
been  graven  as  if  with  a  steel  tool  on  Mr.  Razu- 
mov's  brain,  since  he  was  able  to  write  his  relation  with 
such  fullness  and  precision  a  good  many  months  after- 
ward. 

The  record  of  the  thoughts  which  assailed  him  in  the 
street  is  even  more  minute  and  abundant.  They  seem 
to  have  rushed  upon  him  with  the  greater  freedom  be- 
cause his  thinking  powers  were  no  longer  crushed  by 
Haldin's  presence — the  appalling  presence  of  a  great 
crime  and  the  stunning  force  of  a  great  fanaticism.  On 
looking  through  the  pages  of  Mr.  Razumov's  diary  I 
own  that  a  "rush  of  thoughts"  is  not  an  adequate  image. 

The  more  adequate  description  would  be  a  tumult  of 
thoughts — the  faithful  reflection  of  the  state  of  his  feel- 
ings. The  thoughts  in  themselves  were  not  numerous — 
they  were,  like  the  thoughts  of  most  human  beings,  few 
and  simple — but  they  cannot  be  reproduced  here  in  all 
their  exclamatory  repetitions,  which  went  on  in  a  long 
and  weary  turmoil — for  the  walk  was  long. 

If  to  the  Western  reader  they  appear  shocking,  in- 
appropriate, or  even  improper,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  as  to  the  first  this  may  be  the  effect  of  my  crude 
statement.  For  the  rest  I  will  only  remark  here  that 
this  is  not  a  story  of  the  West  of  Europe. 

Nations,  it  may  be,  have  fashioned  their  govern- 
ments, but  the  governments  have  paid  them  back  in  the 
same  coin.  It  is  unthinkable  that  any  young  English- 
man should  find  himself  in  Razumov's  situation.     This 

24 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

being  so,  it  would  be  a  vain  enterprise  to  imagine  what 
he  would  think.  The  only  safe  surmise  to  make  is  that 
he  would  not  think  as  Mr.  Razumov  thought  at  this 
crisis  of  his  fate.  He  would  not  have  an  hereditary  and 
personal  knowledge  of  the  means  by  which  an  historical 
autocracy  represses  ideas,  guards  its  power,  and  defends 
its  existence.  By  an  act  of  mental  extravagance  he 
might  imagine  himself  arbitrarily  thrown  into  prison; 
but  it  would  never  occur  to  him  unless  he  were  delirious 
(and  perhaps  not  even  then)  that  he  could  be  beaten 
with  whips  as  a  practical  measure  either  of  investigation 
or  of  punishment. 

This  is  but  a  crude  and  obvious  example  of  the  differ- 
ent conditions  of  Western  thought.  I  don't  know  that 
this  danger  occurred  specially  to  Mr.  Razumov.  No 
doubt  it  entered  unconsciously  into  the  general  dread 
and  the  general  appallingness  of  this  crisis.  Razumov, 
as  has  been  seen,  was  aware  of  more  subtle  ways  in 
which  an  individual  may  be  undone  by  the  proceedings 
of  a  despotic  government.  A  simple  expulsion  from  the 
University  (the  very  least  that  could  happen  to  him), 
with  an  impossibility  to  continue  his  studies  anywhere, 
was  enough  to  ruin  utterly  a  young  man  depending  en- 
tirely upon  the  development  of  his  natural  abilities  for 
his  place  in  the  world.  He  was  a  Russian;  and  for  him 
to  be  implicated  meant  simply  sinking  into  the  lowest 
social  depths  among  the  hopeless  and  the  destitute — 
the  night  birds  of  the  city. 

The  peculiar  circumstances  of  Razumov's  parentage, 
or  rather  of  his  lack  of  parentage,  should  be  taken  into 
the  account  of  his  thoughts.  And  he  remembered  them, 
too.  He  had  been  lately  reminded  of  them  in  a  peculiar- 
ly atrocious  way  by  this  fatal  Haldin.  "Because  I 
haven't  that,  must  everything  else  be  taken  away  from 
me?"  he  thought. 

He  nerved  himself  for  another  effort  to  go  on.  Along 
the  roadway  sledges  glided  phantom-like  and  jingling 

25 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

through  a  fluttering  whiteness  on  the  black  face  of  the 
night.  ''For  it  is  a  crime,"  he  was  saying  to  himself. 
"A  murder  is  a  murder.  Though,  of  course,  some  sort 
of  liberal  institutions  ..." 

A  feeling  of  horrible  sickness  came  over  him.  "I 
must  be  courageous,"  he  exhorted  himself,  mentally. 
All  his  strength  was  suddenly  gone,  as  if  taken  out  by 
a  hand.  Then  by  a  mighty  effort  of  will  it  came  back, 
because  he  was  afraid  of  fainting  in  the  street  and  being 
picked  up  by  the  police  with  the  key  of  his  lodgings  in 
his  pocket.  They  would  find  Haldin  there,  and  then, 
indeed,  he  would  be  undone. 

Strangely  enough  it  was  this  fear  which  seems  to  have 
kept  him  up  to  the  end.  The  passers-by  were  rare. 
They  came  upon  him  suddenly,  looming  up  black  in  the 
snowflakes  close  by,  then  vanishing  all  at  once — with- 
out footfalls. 

It  was  the  quarter  of  the  very  poor.  Razumov  noticed 
an  elderly  woman  tied  up  in  ragged  shawls.  Under  the 
street  lamp  she  seemed  a  beggar  off  duty.  She  walked 
leisurely  in  the  blizzard,  as  though  she  had  no  home 
to  hurry  to;  she  hugged  under  one  arm  a  round  loaf  of 
black  bread  with  an  air  of  guarding  a  priceless  booty, 
and  Razumov,  averting  his  glance,  envied  her  the  peace 
of  her  mind  and  the  serenity  of  her  fate. 

To  one  reading  Mr.  Razumov's  narrative  it  is  really 
a  wonder  how  he  managed  to  keep  going  as  he  did  along 
one  interminable  street  after  another  on  pavements 
that  were  gradually  becoming  blocked  with  snow.  It 
was  the  thought  of  Haldin  locked  up  in  his  rooms,  and 
the  desperate  desire  to  get  rid  of  his  presence,  which 
drove  him  forward.  No  rational  determination  had  any 
part  in  his  exertions.  Thus,  when  on  arriving  at  the 
low  eating-house  he  heard  that  the  man  of  horses, 
Ziemianitch,  was  not  there,  he  could  only  stare  stupidly. 

The  waiter,  a  wild-haired  youth  in  tarred  boots  and 
a  pink  shirt,  exclaimed,  uncovering  his  pale  gums  in  a 

?6 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

silly  grin,  that  Ziemianitch  had  got  his  skinful  early  in 
the  afternoon  and  had  gone  away  with  a  bottle  under 
each  arm  to  keep  it  up  among  the  horses — he  supposed. 

The  owner  of  the  vile  den,  a  bony,  short  man  in  a 
dirty  cloth  caftan  coming  down  to  his  heels,  stood  by, 
his  hands  tucked  into  his  belt,  and  nodded  confirmation. 

The  reek  of  spirits,  the  greasy,  rancid  steam  of  food 
got  Razumov  by  the  throat.  He  struck  a  table  with  his 
clenched  hand,  and  shouted  violently: 

"You  lie." 

Bleary,  unwashed  faces  were  turned  in  his  direction. 
A  mild-eyed,  ragged  tramp  drinking  tea  at  the  next 
table  moved  farther  away.  A  murmur  of  wonder  arose 
with  an  undertone  of  uneasiness.  A  laugh  was  heard, 
too,  and  an  exclamation.  "There!  There!"  jeeringly 
soothing.  The  waiter  looked  all  round  and  announced 
to  the  room: 

"The  gentleman  won't  believe  that  Ziemianitch  is 
drunk." 

From  a  distant  comer  a  hoarse  voice  belonging  to  a 
horrible  nondescript,  shaggy  being,  with  a  black  face 
like  the  muzzle  of  a  bear,  grunted  angrily : 

"The  cursed  driver  of  thieves.  What  do  we  want 
with  his  gentlemen  here?  We  are  all  honest  folk  in 
this  place." 

Razumov,  biting  his  lip  till  blood  came  to  keep  him- 
self from  bursting  into  imprecations,  followed  the  owner 
of  the  den,  who,  whispering,  "Come  along,  little  father," 
led  him  into  a  tiny  hole  of  a  place  behind  the  wooden 
counter,  whence  proceeded  a  sound  of  splashing.  A  wet 
and  bedraggled  creature,  a  sort  of  sexless  and  shivering 
scarecrow,  washed  glasses  in  there,  bending  over  a 
wooden  tub  by  the  light  of  a  tallow  dip. 

"Yes,  little  father,"  the  man  in  the  long  caftan  said, 
plaintively.  He  had  a  brown,  cunning  little  face,  a  thin, 
grayish  beard.  Trying  to  light  a  tin  lantern,  he  hugged 
it  to  his  breast  and  talked  garrulously  the  while. 

27 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

He  would  show  Ziemianitch  to  the  gentleman  to  prove 
there  were  no  lies  told.  And  he  would  show  him  drunk. 
His  woman,  it  seems,  ran  away  from  him  last  night. 
"  Such  a  hag  she  was !  Thin !  Tf ui ! "  He  spat .  They 
were  always  running  away  from  that  driver  of  the  devil — 
and  he  sixty  years  old,  too;  could  never  get  used  to 
it.  But  each  heart  knows  sorrow  after  its  own  kind, 
and  Ziemianitch  was  a  born  fool  all  his  days.  And  then 
he  would  fly  to  the  bottle.  "  'Who  could  bear  life  in 
our  land  without  the  bottle  ?'  he  says.  A  proper  Russian 
man — the  little  pig.  ...  Be  pleased  to  follow  me." 

Razumov  crossed  a  quadrangle  of  deep  snow  inclosed 
between  high  walls  with  innumerable  windows.  Here 
and  there  a  dim  yellow  light  hung  within  the  four- 
square mass  of  darkness.  The  house  was  an  enormous 
slum,  a  hive  of  human  vermin,  a  monumental  abode  of 
misery  towering  on  the  verge  of  starvation  and  despair. 

In  a  corner  the  ground  sloped  sharply  down,  and 
Razumov  followed  the  light  of  the  lantern  through  a 
small  doorway  into  a  long,  cavernous  place  like  a 
neglected  subterranean  byre.  Deep  within,  three  shaggy 
little  horses  tied  up  to  rings  hung  their  heads  together, 
motionless  and  shadowy  in  the  dim  light  of  the  lantern. 
It  must  have  been  the  famous  team  of  Haldin's  escape. 
Razumov  peered  fearfully  into  the  gloom.  His  guide 
pawed  in  the  straw  with  his  foot. 

*'Here  he  is.  Ah!  the  little  pigeon.  A  true  Russian 
man.  'No  heavy  hearts  for  me,'  he  says.  'Bring  out 
the  bottle  and  take  your  ugly  mug  out  of  my  sight.' 
Ha,  ha,  ha!     That's  the  fellow  he  is." 

He  held  the  lantern  over  a  prone  form  of  a  man, 
apparently  fully  dressed  for  outdoors.  His  head  was 
lost  in  a  pointed  cloth  hood.  On  the  other  side  of  a 
heap  of  straw  protruded  a  pair  of  feet  in  monstrous 
thick  boots. 

"Always  ready  to  drive,"  commented  the  keeper  of 
the    eating-house*     "A    proper    Russian    driver  that. 

28 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Saint  or  devil,  night  or  day,  is  all  one  to  Ziemianitch 
when  his  heart  is  free  from  sorrow.  'I  don't  ask  who 
you  are,  but  where  you  want  to  go,'  he  says.  He  would 
drive  Satan  himself  to  his  own  abode  and  come  back 
whistling  to  his  horses.  Many  a  one  he  has  driven  who 
is  clanking  his  chains  in  the  Nertchinsk  mines  by  this 
time." 

Razumov  shuddered. 

"Call  out!     Wake  him  up!"  he  faltered  out. 

The  other  set  down  his  light,  stepped  back,  and 
launched  a  kick  at  the  prostrate  sleeper.  The  man 
shook  at  the  impact,  but  did  not  move.  At  the  third 
kick  he  grunted,  but  remained  inert  as  before. 

The  eating-house  keeper  desisted  and  fetched  a  deep 
sigh. 

*'  You  see  for  yourself  how  it  is.  We  have  done  what 
we  can  for  you." 

He  picked  up  the  lantern.  The  intense  black  spokes 
of  shadow  swung  about  in  the  circle  of  light.  A  terrible 
fury — the  blind  rage  of  self-preservation — possessed 
Razumov. 

"Ah!  The  vile  beast!"  he  bellowed  out  in  an  un- 
earthly tone  which  made  the  lantern  jump  and  tremble: 
"I  shall  wake  you!     Give  me  .  .  .  Give  me  .  .  .'* 

He  looked  round  wildly,  seized  the  handle  of  a  broken 
stable  fork,  and,  rushing  forward,  struck  at  the  prostrate 
body  with  inarticulate  cries.  After  a  time  his  cries 
ceased  and  the  rain  of  blows  fell  in  the  stillness  and 
shadows  of  the  cellar-like  stable.  Razumov  belabored 
Ziemianitch  with  an  insatiable  fury,  in  great  volleys  of 
sounding  thwacks.  Except  for  the  violent  movements 
of  Razumov,  nothing  stirred,  neither  the  beaten  man  nor 
the  spoke-like  shadows  on  the  walls.  And  only  the 
sound  of  blows  was  heard.     It  was  a  strange  scene. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  crack.  The  stick  broke, 
and  half  of  it  flew  far  away  into  the  gloom  beyond  the 
light.     At  the  same  time  Ziemianitch  sat  up.     At  this 

29 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Razumov  became  as  motionless  as  the  man  with  the 
lantern — only  his  breast  heaved  for  air  as  if  ready  to 
burst. 

Some  dull  sensation  of  pain  must  have  penetrated  at 
last  the  consoling  night  of  drunkenness  enwrapping  the 
"bright  Russian  soul"  of  Haldin's  enthusiastic  praise. 
But  Ziemianitch  evidently  saw  nothing.  His  eyeballs 
blinked  all  white  in  the  light  once,  twice — then  the  gleam 
went  out.  For  a  moment  he  sat  in  the  straw  with  closed 
eyes  with  a  strange  air  of  weary  meditation,  then  fell 
over  slowly  on  his  side  without  making  the  slightest 
sound.  Only  the  straw  rustled  a  little.  Razumov 
stared  wildly,  fighting  for  his  breath.  After  a  second  or 
two  he  heard  a  light  snore. 

He  flung  from  him  the  piece  of  stick  remaining  in  his 
grasp,  and  went  off  with  great,  hasty  strides  without  look- 
ing back  once. 

After  going  heedlessly  for  some  fifty  yards  along  the 
street,  he  walked  into  a  snowdrift  and  was  up  to  his  knees 
before  he  stopped. 

This  recalled  him  to  himself,  and,  glancing  about,  he 
discovered  he  had  been  going  in  the  wrong  direction. 
He  retraced  his  steps,  but  now  at  a  more  moderate  pace. 
When  passing  before  the  house  he  had  just  left  he  flour- 
ished his  fist  at  the  somber  refuge  of  misery  and  crime 
rearing  its  sinister  bulk  on  the  white  ground.  It  had  an 
air  of  brooding.  He  let  his  arm  fall  by  his  side — dis- 
couraged. 

Ziemianitch's  passionate  surrender  to  sorrow  and  con- 
solation had  baffled  him.  That  was  the  people.  A  true 
Russian  man!  Razumov  was  glad  he  had  beaten  that 
brute — the  "bright  soul "  of  the  other.  Here  they  were : 
the  people  and  the  enthusiast. 

Between  the  two  he  was  done  for.  Between  the 
drunkenness  of  the  peasant  incapable  of  action  and  the 
dream  intoxication  of  the  idealist  incapable  of  perceiving 
the  reason  of  things  and  the  true  character  of  men. 

30 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

It  was  a  sort  of  terrible  childishness.  But  children  had 
their  masters.  "Ah!  the  stick,  the  stick,  the  stem 
hand,"  thought  Razumov,  longing  for  power  to  hurt  and 
destroy. 

He  was  glad  he  had  thrashed  that  brute.  The  physical 
exertion  had  left  his  body  in  a  comfortable  glow.  His 
mental  agitation,  too,  was  clarified  as  if  all  the  feverish- 
ness  had  gone  out  of  him  in  a  fit  of  outward  violence. 
Together  with  the  persisting  sense  of  terrible  danger,  he 
was  conscious  now  of  a  tranquil,  unquenchable  hate. 

He  walked  slower  and  slower.  And,  indeed,  consider- 
ing the  guest  he  had  in  his  rooms,  it  was  no  wonder  he 
lingered  on  the  way.  It  was  like  harboring  a  pestilential 
disease  that  would  not,  perhaps,  take  your  life,  but 
would  take  from  you  all  that  made  life  worth  living — a 
subtle  pest  that  would  convert  earth  into  a  hell. 

What  was  he  doing  now  ?  Lying  on  the  bed  as  if  dead, 
with  the  back  of  his  hands  over  his  eyes?  Razumov 
had  a  morbidly  vivid  vision  of  Haldin  on  his  bed — the 
white  pillow  hollowed  by  the  head,  the  legs  in  long 
boots,  the  upturned  feet.  And  in  his  abhorrence  he 
said  to  himself:  "I'll  kill  him  when  I  get  home."  But 
he  knew  very  well  that  that  was  of  no  use.  The  corpse 
hanging  round  his  neck  would  be  nearly  as  fatal  as  the 
living  man.  Nothing  short  of  complete  annihilation 
would  do.  And  that  was  impossible.  What  then? 
Must  one  kill  oneself  to  escape  this  visitation? 

Razumov's  despair  was  too  profoundly  tinged  with 
hate  to  accept  that  issue. 

And  yet  it  was  despair — nothing  less — at  the  thought 
of  having  to  live  with  Haldin  for  an  indefinite  number 
of  days  in  mortal  alarm  at  every  sound.  But  perhaps 
when  he  heard  that  this  "bright  soul"  of  Ziemianitch 
suffered  from  a  drunken  eclipse  the  fellow  would  take 
his  infernal  resignation  somewhere  else.  And  that  was 
not  likely  on  the  face  of  it. 

Razumov  thought,  "I  am  being  crushed — and  I  can't 

31 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

even  run  away."  Other  men  had  somewhere  a  corner 
of  the  earth — some  little  house  in  the  provinces  where 
they  had  a  right  to  take  their  troubles.  A  material 
refuge.  He  had  nothing.  He  had  not  even  a  moral 
refuge — the  refuge  of  confidence.  To  whom  could  he  go 
with  this  tale  in  all  this  great,  great  land? 

Razumov  stamped  his  foot,  and  under  the  soft  carpet 
of  snow  felt  the  hard  ground  of  Russia,  inanimate,  cold, 
inert,  like  a  sullen  and  tragic  mother  hiding  her  face 
under  a  winding-sheet — his  native  soil ! — his  very  own — 
without  a  fireside,  without  a  heart! 

He  cast  his  eyes  upward  and  stood  amazed.  The 
snow  had  ceased  to  fall,  and  now  as  if  by  a  miracle 
he  saw  above  his  head  the  clear,  black  sky  of  the  North- 
em  winter  decorated  with  the  sumptuous  fires  of  the 
stars.  It  was  a  canopy  fit  for  the  resplendent  purity  of 
the  snows. 

Razumov  received  an  almost  physical  impression  of 
endless  space  and  of  countless  millions. 

He  responded  to  it  with  the  readiness  of  a  Russian 
who  is  born  to  an  inheritance  of  space  and  numbers. 
Under  the  sumptuous  immensity  of  the  sky,  the  snow- 
covered,  the  endless  forests,  the  frozen  rivers,  the  plains 
of  an  immense  country,  obliterating  the  landmarks,  the 
accidents  of  the  ground  leveling  everything  under  its 
uniform  whiteness  like  a  monstrous  blank  page  awaiting 
the  record  of  an  inconceivable  history.  It  covered  the 
passive  land  with  its  lives  of  countless  people  like 
Ziemianitch  and  its  handful  of  agitators  like  this  Haldin 
— murdering  foolishly. 

It  was  a  sort  of  sacred  inertia.  Razumov  felt  a  re- 
spect for  it.  A  voice  seemed  to  cry  within  him :  "Don't 
touch  it."  It  was  a  guarantee  of  duration,  of  safety, 
while  the  travail  of  maturing  destiny  went  on — a  work 
not  of  revolutions  with  their  passionate  levity  of  action 
and  their  shifting  impulses — but  of  peace.  What  it 
needed  was  not  the  conflicting  aspirations  of  a  people, 

32 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

but  a  will  strong  and  one:  it  wanted  not  the  babble  of 
many  voices,  but  a  man — strong  and  one! 

Razumov  stood  on  the  point  of  conversion.  He  was 
fascinated  by  its  approach,  by  its  overpowering  logic. 
For  a  train  of  thought  is  never  false.  The  falsehood 
lies  deep  in  the  necessities  of  existence,  in  secret  fears 
and  half-formed  ambitions,  in  the  secret  confidence 
combined  with  a  secret  mistrust  of  ourselves,  in  the  love 
of  hope  and  the  dread  of  uncertain  days. 

In  Russia,  the  land  of  spectral  ideas  and  disembodied 
aspirations,  many  brave  minds  have  turned  away  at 
last  from  the  vain  and  endless  conflict  to  the  one  great 
historical  fact  of  the  land.  They  turned  to  autocracy 
for  the  peace  of  their  patriotic  conscience  as  a  weary 
unbeliever,  touched  by  grace,  turns  to  the  faith  of  his 
fathers  for  the  blessing  of  spiritual  rest.  Like  other 
Russians  before  him,  Razumov,  in  conflict  with  himself, 
felt  the  touch  of  grace  upon  his  forehead. 

"Haldin  means  disruption,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
beginning  to  walk  again.  "What  is  he  with  his  indig- 
nation, with  his  talk  of  bondage  —  with  his  talk  of 
God's  justice  ?  All  that  means  disruption.  Better  that 
thousands  should  suffer  than  that  a  people  should  be- 
come a  disintegrated  mass,  helpless  like  dust  in  the 
wind.  Obscurantism  is  better  than  the  light  of  in- 
cendiary torches.  The  seed  germinates  in  the  night. 
Out  of  the  dark  soil  springs  the  perfect  plant.  But  a 
volcanic  eruption  is  sterile,  the  ruin  of  the  fertile  ground. 
And  am  I,  who  love  my  country — who  have  nothing 
but  that  to  love  and  put  my  faith  in — ^am  I  to  have  my 
future,  perhaps  my  usefulness,  ruined  by  this  sanguinary 
fanatic  ? 

The  Grace  entered  into  Razumov.  He  believed  now 
in  the  man  who  would  come  at  the  appointed  time. 

What  is  the  throne  ?  A  few  pieces  of  wood  upholstered 
in  velvet.  But  a  throne  is  a  seat  of  power,  too.  The 
form  of  government  is  the  shape  of  a  tool — an  instru- 

33 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

ment.  But  twenty  thousand  bladders  inflated  by  the 
noblest  sentiments  and  jostHng  against  one  another  in 
the  air  are  a  miserable  encumbrance  of  space,  holding 
no  power,  possessing  no  will,  having  nothing  to  give. 

He  went  on  thus,  heedless  of  the  way,  holding  a  dis- 
course with  himself  with  extraordinary  abundance  and 
facility.  Generally  his  phrases,  came  to  him  slowly, 
after  a  conscious  and  painstaking  wooing.  Some  su- 
perior power  had  inspired  him  with  a  flow  of  masterly 
argument,  as  certain  converted  sinners  become  over- 
whelmingly loquacious. 

He  felt  an  austere  exultation. 

"What  are  the  luridly  smoky  lucubrations  of  that 
fellow  to  the  clear  grasp  of  my  intellect?"  he  thought. 
" Is  not  this  my  country?  Have  I  not  got  forty  million 
brothers?"  he  asked  himself,  unanswerably  victorious 
in  the  silence  of  his  breast.  And  the  fearful  thrashing 
he  had  given  the  inanimate  Ziemianitch  seemed  to  him 
like  a  sign  of  intimate  union,  a  pathetically  severe  neces- 
sity of  brotherly  love.  "No!  if  I  must  suffer,  let  me 
at  least  suffer  for  my  convictions,  not  for  a  crime  my 
reason — my  cool,  superior  reason — rejects." 

He  ceased  to  think  for  a  moment.  The  silence  in  his 
breast  was  complete.  But  he  felt  a  suspicious  uneasi- 
ness, such  as  we  may  experience  when  we  enter  an  unlight- 
ed  strange  place — the  irrational  feeling  that  something 
may  jump  upon  us  in  the  dark — the  absurd  dread  of  the 
unseen. 

Of  course  he  was  far  from  being  a  moss-grown  re- 
actionary. Everything  was  not  for  the  best.  Despotic 
bureaucracy  .  .  .  abuses  .  .  .  corruption  .  .  .  and  so  on. 
Capable  men  were  wanted.  Enlightened  intelligences. 
Devoted  hearts.  But  absolute  power  should  be  pre- 
served— the  tool  ready  for  the  man — for  the  great  au- 
tocrat of  the  future.  Razumov  believed  in  him.  The 
logic  of  history  made  him  unavoidable.  The  state  of 
the  people   demanded  him.     **What  else?"   he  asked 

34 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

himself,  ardently,  **  could  move  all  that  mass  in  one 
direction?     Nothing  could.     Nothing  but  a  single  will." 

He  was  persuaded  that  he  was  sacrificing  his  personal 
longings  of  liberalism — rejecting  the  attractive  error  for 
the  stern  Russian  truth.  "That's  patriotism,"  he  ob- 
served, mentally,  and  added,  "There's  no  stopping  mid- 
way on  that  road,"  and  then  remarked  to  himself,  "I 
am  not  a  coward." 

And  again  there  was  a  dead  silence  in  Razumov's 
breast.  He  walked  with  lowered  head,  making  room 
for  no  one.  He  walked  slowly,  and  his  thoughts,  return- 
ing, spoke  within  him  with  solemn  slowness. 

"What  is  this  Haldin?  And  what  am  I?  Only  two 
grains  of  sand.  But  a  great  mountain  is  made  up  of  just 
such  insignificant  grains.  And  the  death  of  a  man  or  of 
many  men  is  an  insignificant  thing.  Yet  we  combat 
a  contagious  pestilence.  Do  I  want  his  death?  No!  I 
would  save  him  if  I  could — ^but  no  one  can  do  that — he  is 
the  withered  member  that  must  be  cut  off.  If  I  must 
perish  through  him,  let  me  at  least  not  perish  with  him, 
and  associated  against  my  will  with  his  somber  folly 
that  understands  nothing  either  of  men  or  things.  Why 
should  I  leave  a  false  memory?" 

It  passed  through  his  mind  that  there  was  no  one  in 
the  world  who  cared  what  sort  of  memory  he  left  behind 
him.  He  exclaimed  to  himself  instantly :  "  Perish  vainly 
for  a  falsehood!  .  .  .  what  a  miserable  fate!" 

He  was  now  in  a  more  animated  part  of  the  town.  He 
did  not  remark  the  crash  of  two  colliding  sledges  close 
to  the  curb.  The  driver  of  one  bellowed  tearfully  at  his 
fellow. 

**0h!     Thou  vile  wretch!" 

This  hoarse  yell,  let  out  nearly  in  his  ear,  disturbed 
Razumov.  He  shook  his  head  impatiently  and  went  on 
looking  straight  before  him.  Suddenly  on  the  snow, 
stretched  on  his  back  right  across  his  path,  he  saw 
Haldin,  solid,  distinct,  real,  with  his  inverted  hands  over 

35 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

his  eyes,  clad  in  a  brown,  close-fitting  coat  and  long  boots. 
He  was  lying  out  of  the  way  a  little,  as  though  he  had 
selected  that  place  on  purpose.  The  snow  round  him 
was  untrodden. 

This  hallucination  had  such  a  solidity  of  aspect  that 
the  first  movement  of  Razumov  was  to  reach  for  his 
pocket  to  assure  himself  that  the  key  of  his  rooms  was 
there.  But  he  checked  the  impulse  with  a  disdainful 
curve  of  his  lips.  He  understood.  His  thought,  con- 
centrated intensely  on  the  figure  left  lying  on  his  bed, 
had  culminated  in  this  extraordinary  illusion  of  the 
sight.  Razumov  tackled  the  phenomenon  calmly. 
With  a  stem  face,  without  a  check,  and  gazing  far  beyond 
the  vision,  he  walked  on,  experiencing  nothing  but  a 
slight  tightening  of  the  chest.  After  passing,  he  turned 
his  head  for  a  glance  and  saw  only  the  unbroken  track  of 
his  footsteps  over  the  place  where  the  breast  of  the 
phantom  had  been  lying. 

Razumov  walked  on,  and  after  a  little  time  whispered 
his  wonder  to  himself. 

''Exactly  as  if  alive!  Seemed  to  breathe!  And  right 
in  my  way,  too!  I  have  had  an  extraordinary  ex- 
perience." 

He  made  a  few  steps  and  muttered  through  his  set 
teeth : 

"I  shall  give  him  up." 

Then  for  some  twenty  yards  or  more  all  was  blank. 
He  wrapped  his  cloak  closer  round  him.  He  pulled  his 
cap  well  forward  over  his  eyes. 

"Betray.  A  great  word.  What  is  betrayal?  They 
talk  of  a  man  betraying  his  country,  his  friends,  his 
sweetheart.  There  must  be  a  moral  bond  first.  All  a 
man  can  betray  is  his  conscience.  And  how  is  my  con- 
science engaged  here;  by  what  bond  of  common  faith,  of 
common  conviction  am  I  obliged  to  let  that  fanatical 
idiot  drag  me  down  with  him  ?  On  the  contrary,  every 
obligation  of  true  courage  is  the  other  way." 

36 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Razumov  looked  round  from  under  his  cap. 

**What  can  the  prejudice  of  the  world  reproach  me 
with?  Have  I  provoked  his  confidence?  No!  Have 
I  by  a  single  word,  look,  or  gesture  given  him  reason  to 
suppose  that  I  accepted  his  trust  in  me  ?  No !  It  is  true 
that  I  consented  to  go  and  see  his  Ziemianitch.  Well,  I 
have  been  to  see  him.  And  I  broke  a  stick  on  his  back, 
too — the  brute." 

Something  seemed  to  turn  over  in  his  head  bringing 
uppermost  a  singularly  hard,  clear  facet  of  his  brain. 

"It  would  be  better,  however,"  he  said  to  himself, 
with  a  quite  different  mental  accent,  "to  keep  that 
circumstance  altogether  to  myself." 

He  had  passed  beyond  the  turn  leading  to  his  lodgings, 
and  had  reached  a  wide  and  fashionable  street.  Some 
shops  were  still  open  and  all  the  restaurants.  Lights 
fell  on  the  pavement  where  men  in  expensive  fur  coats, 
with  here  and  there  the  elegant  figure  of  a  woman,  walked 
with  an  air  of  leisure,  Razumov  looked  at  them  with 
the  contempt  of  an  austere  believer  for  the  frivolous 
crowd.  It  was  the  world — those  officers,  dignitaries, 
men  of  fashion,  officials,  members  of  the  Yacht  Club. 
The  event  of  the  morning  affected  them  all.  What 
would  they  say  if  they  knew  what  this  student  in  a 
cloak  was  going  to  do  ? 

"  Not  one  of  them  is  capable  of  feeling  and  thinking  as 
deeply  as  I  can.  How  many  of  them  could  accomplish 
an  act  of  conscience?" 

Razumov  lingered  in  the  well-lighted  street.  He  was 
firmly  decided.  Indeed,  it  could  hardly  be  called  a  de- 
cision. He  had  simply  discovered  what  he  had  meant 
to  do  all  along.  And  yet  he  felt  the  need  of  some  other 
mind's  sanction. 

With  something  resembling  anguish  he  said  to  himself : 

**  I  want  to  be  understood."  The  universal  aspiration 
with  all  its  profound  and  melancholy  meaning  assailed 
heavily  Razumov,  who,  among  eighty  millions  of  his 

37 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

kith  and  kin,  had  no  heart  to  which  he  could  open  him- 
self. 

The  attorney  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  He  despised 
the  little  agent  of  chicane  too  much.  One  could  not  go 
and  lay  one's  conscience  before  the  policeman  at  the 
corner.  Neither  was  Razumov  anxious  to  go  to  the 
chief  of  his  district's  police — a  common-looking  person 
whom  he  used  to  see  sometimes  in  the  street  in  a  shabby 
uniform  and  with  a  smouldering  cigarette  stuck  to  his 
lower  lip.  "He  would  begin  by  locking  me  up  most 
probably.  At  any  rate,  he  is  certain  to  get  excited  and 
create  an  awful  commotion,"  thought  Razumov,  prac- 
tically. 

An  act  of  conscience  must  be  done  with  outward 
dignity. 

Razumov  longed  desperately  for  a  word  of  advice,  for 
moral  support.  Who  knows  what  true  loneliness  is — 
not  the  conventional  word,  but  the  naked  terror?  To 
the  lonely  themselves  it  wears  a  mask.  The  most 
miserable  outcast  hugs  some  memory  or  some  illusion. 
Now  and  then  a  fatal  conjunction  of  events  may  lift 
the  veil  for  an  instant.  For  an  instant  only.  No 
human  being  could  bear  a  steady  view  of  moral  solitude 
without  going  mad. 

Razumov  had  reached  that  point  of  vision.  To  escape 
from  it  he  embraced  for  a  whole  minute  the  delirious 
purpose  of  rushing  to  his  lodgings  and  flinging  himself 
on  his  knees  by  the  side  of  the  bed  with  the  dark  figure 
stretched  on  it,  to  pour  out  a  full  confession  in  passion- 
ate words  that  would  stir  the  whole  being  of  that  man  to 
its  innermost  depths;  that  would  end  in  embraces  and 
tears;  in  an  incredible  fellowship  of  souls — such  as  the 
world  had  never  seen.     It  was  sublime! 

Inwardly  he  wept  and  trembled  already.  But  to 
the  casual  eyes  that  were  cast  upon  him  he  was  aware 
that  he  appeared  as  a  tranquil  student  in  a  cloak,  out 
for  a  leisurely  stroll.     He  noted,  too,  the  sidelong,  brill- 

38 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

iant  glance  of  a  pretty  woman — with  a  delicate  head, 
and  covered  in  the  hairy  skins  of  wild  beasts  down  to 
her  feet,  like  a  frail  and  beautiful  savage — which  rested 
for  a  moment  with  a  sort  of  mocking  tenderness  on  the 
deep  abstraction  of  that  good-looking  young  man. 

Suddenly  Razumov  stood  still.  The  glimpse  of  a 
passing  gray  whisker  caught  and  lost  in  the  same  in- 
stant had  evoked  the  complete  image  of  Prince  K , 

the  man  who  once  had  pressed  his  hand  as  no  other 
man  had  pressed  it — a  faint  but  lingering  pressure  like 
a  secret  sign,  like  a  half -unwilling  caress. 

And  Razumov  marveled  at  himself.  Why  did  he  not 
think  of  him  before! 

"A  senator,  a  dignitary,  a  great  personage,  the  very 
man—     He!" 

A  strange,  softening  emotion  came  over  Razumov — 
made  his  knees  shake  a  little.  He  repressed  it  with  a 
new-born  austerity.  All  that  sentiment  was  pernicious 
nonsense.  He  couldn't  be  quick  enough;  and  when  he 
got  into  a  sledge  he  shouted  to  the  driver: 

"To  the  K Palace!     Get  on— you!     Fly!" 

The  startled  moujik,  bearded  up  to  the  very  whites  of 
his  eyes,  answered,  obsequiously: 

"I  hear,  your  high  nobility." 

It  was  lucky  for  Razumov  that  Prince  K was  not 

a  man  of  timid  character.    On  the  day  of  Mr.  de  P 's 

murder  an  extreme  alarm  and  despondency  prevailed 
in  the  high  official  spheres. 

Prince  K ,  sitting  sadly  alone  in  his  study,  was  told 

by  his  alarmed  servants  that  a  mysterious  young  man  had 
forced  his  way  into  the  hall,  refused  to  tell  his  name  and 
the  nature  of  his  business,  and  would  not  move  from 
there  till  he  had  seen  his  Excellency  in  private.  Instead 
of  locking  himself  up  and  telephoning  for  the  police, 
as  nine  out  of  ten  high  personages  would  have  done 
that  evening,  the  Prince  gave  way  to  curiosity  and 
came  quietly  to  the  door  of  his  study. 
4  39 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

In  the  hall,  the  front  door  standing  wide  open,  he 
recognized  at  once  Razumov,  pale  as  death,  his  eyes 
blazing,  and  surrounded  by  perplexed  lackeys. 

The  Prince  was  vexed  beyond  measure,  and  even 
indignant.  But  his  humane  instinct  and  a  subtle  sense 
of  self-respect  could  not  allow  him  to  let  this  young 
man  be  thrown  out  into  the  street  by  base  menials. 
He  retreated  unseen  into  his  room,  and  after  a  little 
rang  his  bell.  Razumov  heard  in  the  hall  an  ominously 
raised,  harsh  voice  saying,  somewhere  far  away: 

"Show  the  gentleman  in  here." 

Razumov  walked  in  without  a  tremor.  He  felt  him- 
self invulnerable — raised  far  above  the  shallowness  of 
common  judgment.  Though  he  saw  the  Prince  looking 
at  him  with  black  displeasure,  the  lucidity  of  his  mind, 
of  which  he  was  very  conscious,  gave  him  an  extraor- 
dinary assurance.     He  was  not  asked  to  sit  down. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  appeared  in  the  hall  together. 
All  the  lackeys  stood  up,  and  the  Prince,  moving  with 
difficulty  on  his  gouty  feet,  was  helped  into  his  furs. 
The  carriage  had  been  ordered  before.  When  the  great 
double  door  was  flung  open  with  a  crash,  Razumov,  who 
had  been  standing  silent  with  a  lost  gaze  but  with  every 
faculty  intensely  on  the  alert,  heard  the  Prince's  voice : 

"Your  arm,  young  man." 

The  mobile,  superficial  mind  of  the  ex-guard's  officer, 
man  of  showy  missions,  experienced  in  nothing  but  the 
arts  of  gallant  intrigue  and  worldly  success,  had  been 
equally  impressed  by  the  more  obvious  difficulties  of 
such  a  situation  and  by  Razumov's  quiet  dignity  in 
stating  them. 

He  had  said:  " No.  Upon  the  whole,  I  can't  condemn 
the  step  you  ventured  to  take  by  coming  to  me  with 
your  story.  It  is  not  an  affair  for  police  understrappers. 
The  greatest  importance  is  attached  to.  .  .  .  Set  your 
mind  at  rest.  I  shall  see  you  through  this  most  extraor- 
dinary and  difficult  situation." 

40 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Then  the  Prince  rose  to  ring  the  bell,  and  Razumov, 
making  a  short  bow,  said,  with  deference: 

*'  I  have  trusted  my  instinct.  A  young  man  having  no 
claim  upon  anybody  in  the  world  has,  in  an  hour  of  trial 
involving  his  deepest  political  convictions,  turned  to  an 
illustrious  Russian — that's  all." 

The  Prince  had  exclaimed,  hastily: 

"You  have  done  well." 

In  the  carriage — it  was  a  small  brougham  on  sleigh 
runners — Razumov  broke  the  silence  in  a  voice  that 
trembled  slightly. 

**My  gratitude  surpasses  the  greatness  of  my  pre- 
sumption." 

He  gasped,  feeling  unexpectedly  in  the  dark  a  mo- 
mentary pressure  on  his  arm. 

"You  have  done  well,"  repeated  the  Prince. 

When  the  carriage  stopped,  the  Prince  murmured  to 
Razumov,  who  had  never  ventured  a  single  question : 

"The  house  of  General  T ." 

In  the  middle  of  the  snow-covered  roadway  blazed  a 
great  bonfire.  Some  Cossacks,  the  bridles  of  their  horses 
over  the  arm,  were  warming  themselves  around.  Two 
sentries  stood  at  the  door,  several  gendarmes  lounged 
under  the  great  carriage  gateway,  and,  on  the  first-floor 
landing,  two  orderlies  rose  and  stood  at  attention. 
Razumov  walked  at  the  Prince's  elbow. 

A  surprising  quantity  of  hothouse  plants  in  pots  cum- 
bered the  floor  of  the  anteroom.  Servants  came  forward. 
A  young  man  in  civilian  clothes  arrived  hurriedly,  was 
whispered  to,  bowed  low  and,  exclaiming  zealously, 
"Certainly — this  minute,"  fled  within  somewhere.  The 
Prince  signed  to  Razumov. 

They  passed  through  a  suite  of  reception-rooms  all 
barely  lit  and  one  of  them  prepared  for  dancing.  The 
wife  of  the  General  had  put  off  her  party.  An  at- 
mosphere of  consternation  pervaded  the  place.  But 
the  General's  own  room,  with  heavy,  somber  hangings, 

41 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

two  massive  desks,  and  deep  arm-chairs,  had  all  the 
lights  turned  on.  The  footman  shut  the  door  behind 
them  and  they  waited. 

There  was  a  coal  fire  in  an  English  grate — Razumov 
had  never  before  seen  such  a  fire ;  and  the  silence  of  the 
room  was  like  the  silence  of  the  grave — perfect,  measure- 
less, for  even  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  made  no 
sound.  Filling  a  corner,  on  a  black  pedestal,  stood  a 
quarter-life-size  smooth-limbed  bronze  of  an  adolescent 
figure  running.     The  Prince  observed  in  an  undertone: 

"Spontini's  'Flight  of  Youth.'     Exquisite." 

"Admirable,"  assented  Razumov,  faintly. 

They  said  nothing  more  after  this,  the  Prince  silent 
with  his  grand  air,  Razumov  staring  at  the  bronze.  He 
was  worried  by  a  sensation  resembling  the  gnawing  of 
hunger. 

He  did  not  turn  when  he  heard  an  inner  door  fly  open 
and  a  quick  footstep,  muffled,  on  the  carpet. 

The  Prince's  voice  immediately  exclaimed,  thick  with 
excitement : 

"We  have  got  him — ce  miserable.  A  worthy  young 
man  came  to  me — No!     It's  incredible.  ..." 

Razumov  held  his  breath  before  the  bronze  as  if  ex- 
pecting a  crash.  Behind  his  back  a  voice  he  had  never 
heard  before  insisted  politely: 

''Mais  asseyez-vous  done." 

The  Prince  almost  shrieked:  ''Mais,  eomprenez-vous , 
mon  eher!  L' assassin/  the  murderer — we  have  got 
him.  .  .  ." 

Razumov  spun  round.  The  General's  smooth,  big 
cheeks  rested  on  the  stiff  collar  of  his  uniform.  He 
must  have  been  already  looking  at  Razumov,  because 
that  last  saw  the  pale-blue  eyes  fastened  on  him  coldly. 

The  Prince  from  a  chair  waved  an  impressive  hand. 

"This  is  the  most  honorable  young  man  whom 
Providence  itself  .  .  .  Mr.  Razumov." 

The  General  acknowledged  the  introduction  by  frown- 

49 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

ing  at  Razumov,  who  did  not  make  the  slightest  move- 
ment. 

Sitting  down  before  his  desk,  the  General  listened  with 
compressed  lips.  It  was  impossible  to  detect  any  sign 
of  emotion  on  his  face. 

Razumov  watched  the  immobility  of  the  fleshy  profile. 
But  it  lasted  only  a  moment,  till  the  Prince  had  finished ; 
and  when  the  General  turned  to  the  providential  young 
man,  his  florid  complexion,  the  blue,  unbelieving  eyes, 
and  the  bright  white  flash  of  an  automatic  smile  had 
an  air  of  jovial,  careless  cruelty.  He  expressed  no  won- 
der at  the  extraordinary  story — no  pleasure  or  excitement 
— no  incredulity  either.  He  betrayed  no  sentiment  what- 
ever. Only  with  a  politeness  almost  deferential  sug- 
gested that  "the  bird  might  have  flown  while  Mr. — Mr. 
Razumov  was  running  about  the  streets." 

Razumov  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
said:  "The  door  is  locked  and  I  have  the  key  in  my 
pocket." 

His  loathing  for  the  man  was  intense.  It  had  come 
upon  him  so  unawares  that  he  felt  he  had  not  kept  it  out 
of  his  voice.  The  General  looked  up  at  him  thought- 
fully, and  Razumov  grinned. 

All  this  went  over  the  head  of  Prince  K ,  seated 

in  a  deep  arm-chair,  very  tired  and  impatient. 

"A  student  called  Haldin,"  said  the  General,  thought- 
fully. 

Razumov  ceased  to  grin. 

"That  is  his  name,"  he  said,  unnecessarily  loud. 
"Victor  Victorovitch  Haldin — a  student." 

The  General  shifted  his  position  a  little. 

"How  is  he  dressed?  Would  you  have  the  goodness 
to  tell  me?" 

Razumov  angrily  described  Haldin's  clothing  in  a  few 
jerky  words.  The  General  stared  all  the  time,  then, 
addressing  the  Prince: 

"We  were  not  without  some  indications,"   he  said 

43 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

in  French.  "A  good  woman  who  was  in  the  street 
described  to  us  somebody  wearing  a  dress  of  the  sort 
as  the  thrower  of  the  second  bomb.  We  have  detained 
her  at  the  Secretariat,  and  every  one  in  a  Tcherkess 
coat  we  could  lay  our  hands  on  has  been  brought  to 
her  to  look  at.  She  kept  on  signing  herself  and  shaking 
her  head  at  them.     It  was  exasperating.  ..." 

He  turned  to  Razumov,  and  in  Russian,  with  friendly 
^VJ*eproach : 

''Take  a  chair,  Mr.  Razumov — do.  Why  are  you 
standing?" 

Razumov  sat  down  carelessly  and  looked  at  the  General. 

"This  goggle-eyed  imbecile  understands  nothing,"  he 
thought. 

The  Prince  began  to  speak  loftily. 

"Mr.  Razumov  is  a  young  man  of  conspicuous  abilities. 
I  have  it  at  heart  that  his  future  should  not  ..." 

"Certainly,"  interrupted  the  General,  with  a  move- 
ment of  the  hand.  "Has  he  any  weapons  on  him,  do 
you  think,  Mr.  Razumov?" 

The  General  employed  a  gentle,  musical  voice. 
Razumov  answered  with  suppressed  irritation: 

"No.  But  my  razors  are  lying  about — you  under- 
stand." 

The  General  lowered  his  head  approvingly. 

"Precisely." 

Then  to  the  Prince,  explaining  courteously: 

"We  want  that  bird  alive.  It  will  be  the  devil  if  we 
can't  make  him  sing  a  little  before  we  are  done  with 
him." 

The  grave-like  silence  of  the  room,  with  its  mute 
clock,  fell  upon  the  polite  modulations  of  this  terrible 
phrase.  The  Prince,  hidden  in  the  chair,  made  no 
sound. 

The  General  unexpectedly  developed  a  thought. 

"Fidelity  to  menaced  institutions  on  which  depend 
the  safety  of  a  throne  and  of  a  people  is  no  child's  play. 

44 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

We  know  that,  mon  Prince,  and  —  tenez,'"  he  went  on, 
with  a  sort  of  flattering  harshness.  "Mr.  Razumov 
here  begins  to  understand  that,  too." 

His  eyes,  which  he  turned  upon  Razumov,  seemed  to 
be  starting  out  of  his  head.  This  grotesqueness  of  aspect 
no  longer  shocked  Razumov.  He  said,  with  gloomy- 
conviction  : 

"Haldin  will  never  speak." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen,"  muttered  the  General. 

"I  am  certain,"  insisted  Razumov.  "A  man  like 
this  never  speaks.  .  .  .  Do  you  imagine  that  I  am  here 
from  fear,"  he  added,  violently.  He  felt  ready  to  stand 
by  his  opinion  of  Haldin  to  the  last  extremity. 

"Certainly  not,"  protested  the  General,  with  great 
simplicity  of  tone.  "And  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Mr. 
Razumov,  that  if  he  had  not  come  with  his  tale  to  such 
a  stanch  and  loyal  Russian  as  you  he  would  have  dis- 
appeared like  a  stone  in  the  water  .  .  .  which  would  have 
had  a  detestable  effect,"  he  added,  with  a  bright,  cruel 
smile  under  his  stony  stare.  "So,  you  see,  there  can 
be  no  suspicion  of  any  fear  here." 

The  Prince  intervened,  looking  at  Razumov  round 
the  back  of  the  arm-chair. 

"Nobody  doubts  the  moral  soundness  of  your  action. 
Be  at  ease  in  that  respect,  pray." 

He  turned  to  the  General  uneasily. 

"That's  why  I  am  here.  You  may  be  surprised  why 
I  should  .  .  ." 

The  General  hastened  to  interrupt. 

"Not  at  all.  Extremely  natural.  ^You  saw  the  im- 
portance ..." 

"Yes,"  broke  in  the  Prince.  "And  I  venture  to  ask 
insistently  that  mine  and  Mr.  Razumov's  intervention 
should  not  become  public.  He  is  a  young  man  of  prom- 
ise— of  remarkable  aptitudes." 

"I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it,"  murmured  the  General. 
"He  inspires  confidence." 

45 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"All  sorts  of  pernicious  views  are  so  widespread  nowa- 
days— ^they  taint  such  unexpected  quarters — that,  mon- 
strous as  it  seems,  he  might  suffer.  .  .  .  His  studies.  .  .  . 
His  .  .  ." 

The  General,  with  his  elbows  on  the  desk,  took  his 
head  between  his  hands. 

"Yes.  Yes.  I  am  thinking  it  out.  .  .  .  How  long  is 
it  since  you  left  him  at  your  rooms,  Mr.  Razumov?" 

Razumov  mentioned  the  hour  which  nearly  corre- 
sponded with  the  time  of  his  distracted  flight  from  the 
big  slum  house.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  keep 
Ziemianitch  out  of  the  affair  completely.  To  mention 
him  at  all  would  mean  imprisonment  for  the  "bright 
soul,"  perhaps  cruel  floggings,  and  in  the  end  a  journey 
into  Siberia  in  chains.  Razumov,  who  had  beaten 
Ziemianitch,  felt  for  him  now  a  vague,  remorseful 
tenderness. 

The  General,  giving  way  for  the  first  time  to  his  secret 
sentiments,  exclaimed,  contemptuously: 

"And  you  say  he  came  in  to  make  you  this  confidence 
like  this — for  nothing — a  propos  des  bottes." 

Razumov  felt  danger  in  the  air.  The  merciless  sus- 
picion of  despotism  had  spoken  openly  at  last.  Sudden 
fear  sealed  Razumov's  lips.  The  silence  of  the  room 
resembled  now  the  silence  of  a  deep  dungeon,  where 
time  does  not  count  and  a  suspect  person  is  sometimes 
forgotten  forever.     But  the  Prince  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Providence  itself  has  led  the  wretch  in  a  moment 
of  mental  aberration  to  seek  Mr.  Razumov  on  the 
strength  of  some  old,  utterly  misinterpreted  exchange 
of  ideas — some  sort  of  idle  speculative  conversation — 
months  ago,  I  am  told,  and  completely  forgotten  till 
now  by  Mr.  Razumov." 

"Mr.  Razumov,"  queried  the  General,  meditatively, 
after  a  short  silence,  "do  you  often  indulge  in  specula- 
tive conversation?" 

"No,  Excellency,"  answered  Razumov,  coolly,  in  a 

46 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

sudden  access  of  self-confidence.  "I  am  a  man  of  deep 
convictions.  Crude  opinions  are  in  the  air.  They  are 
not  always  worth  combating.  But  even  the  silent  con- 
tempt of  a  serious  mind  may  be  misinterpreted  by  head- 
long utopists." 

The  General  stared  from  between  his  hands.  Prince 
K murmured: 

"A  serious  young  man.     Un  esprit  superieur.'" 

"I  see  that,  mon  cher  Prince,''  said  the  General. 
"Mr.  Razumov  is  quite  safe  with  me.  I  am  interested 
in  him.  He  has,  it  seems,  the  great  and  useful  quality 
of  inspiring  confidence.  What  I  was  wondering  at  is 
why  the  other  should  mention  anything  at  all — I  mean 
even  the  bare  fact  alone — if  his  object  was  only  to  obtain 
temporary  shelter  for  a  few  hours.  For,  after  all,  noth- 
ing was  easier  than  to  say  nothing  about  it  unless,  in- 
deed, he  were  trying,  under  a  crazy  misapprehension  of 
your  true  sentiments,  to  enlist  your  assistance — eh,  Mr. 
Razumov?" 

It  seemed  to  Razumov  that  the  floor  was  moving 
slightly.  This  grotesque  man  in  a  tight  uniform  was 
terrible.     It  was  right  that  he  should  be  terrible. 

"I  can  see  what  your  Excellency  has  in  your  mind. 
But  I  can  only  answer  that  I  don't  know  why." 

"  I  have  nothing  in  my  mind,"  murmured  the  General, 
with  gentle  surprise. 

**I  am  his  prey — his  helpless  prey,"  thought  Razu- 
mov. The  fatigues  and  the  disgusts  of  that  afternoon, 
the  need  to  forget,  the  fear  which  he  could  not  keep  off, 
reawakened  his  hate  for  Haldin. 

"Then  I  can't  help  your  Excellency.  I  don't  know 
what  he  meant.  I  only  know  there  was  a  moment  when 
I  wished  to  kill  him.  There  was  also  a  moment  when  I 
wished  myself  dead.  I  said  nothing.  I  was  overcome. 
I  provoked  no  confidence — I  asked  for  no  explanations." 

Razumov  seemed  beside  himself;  but  his  mind  was 
lucid.     It  was  really  a  calculated  outburst. 

47 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"It  is  rather  a  pity,"  the  General  said,  "that  you  did 
not.     Don't  you  know  at  all  what  he  means  to  do?" 

Razumov  calmed  down  and  saw  an  opening  there. 

"He  told  me  he  was  in  hopes  that  a  sledge  would  meet 
him  about  half  an  hour  after  midnight  at  the  seventh 
lamp-post  on  the  left  from  the  upper  end  of  Karabelnaya. 
At  any  rate,  he  meant  to  be  there  at  that  time.  He  did 
not  even  ask  for  a  change  of  clothes." 

''AhyVoilaf'  said  the  General,  turning  to  Prince  K 

with  an  air  of  satisfaction.  "There  is  a  way  to  keep 
your  protege,  Mr.  Razumov,  quite  clear  of  any  connec- 
tion with  the  actual  arrest.  We  shall  be  ready  for  that 
gentleman  in  Karabelnaya." 

The  Prince  expressed  his  gratitude.  There  was  real 
emotion  in  his  voice.  Razumov,  motionless,  silent,  sat 
staring  at  the  carpet.     The  General  turned  to  him. 

"Half  an  hour  after  midnight.  Till  then  we  have  to 
depend  on  you,  Mr.  Razumov.  You  don't  think  he  is 
likely  to  change  his  purpose?" 

"How  can  I  tell,"  said  Razumov.  "Those  men  are 
not  of  the  sort  that  ever  changes  its  purpose." 

"What  men  do  you  mean?" 

"Fanatical  lovers  of  liberty  in  general.  Liberty  with 
a  capital  L,  Excellency.  Liberty  that  means  nothing 
precise.     Liberty  in  whose  name  crimes  are  committed." 

The  General  murmured: 

"I  detest  rebels  of  every  kind.  I  can't  help  it.  It's 
my  nature!" 

He  clenched  a  fist  and  shook  it,  drawing  back  his  arm. 
"They  shall  be  destroyed,  then." 

"They  have  made  a  sacrifice  of  their  lives  before- 
hand," said  Razumov,  with  malicious  pleasure,  and 
looking  the  General  straight  in  the  face.  "If  Haldin 
does  change  his  purpose  to-night,  you  may  depend  on 
it  that  it  will  not  be  to  save  his  life  by  flight  in  some 
other  way.  He  would  have  thought  then  of  something 
else  to  attempt.     But  that  is  not  likely.'! 

48 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

The  General  repeated  as  if  to  himself:  "They  shall 
be  destroyed." 

Razumov  assumed  an  impenetrable  expression.  The 
Prince  exclaimed: 

"What  a  terrible  necessity!"  The  General's  arm  was 
lowered  slowly. 

"One  comfort  there  is.  That  brood  leaves  no  pos- 
terity. I've  always  said  it;  one  effort,  pitiless,  per- 
sistent, steady — and  we  are  done  with  them  forever." 

Razumov  thought  to  himself  that  this  man,  intrusted 
with  so  much  arbitrary  power,  must  have  believed  what 
he  said,  or  else  he  could  not  have  gone  on  bearing  the 
responsibility. 

The  General  repeated  again,  with  extreme  animosity: 

"I  detest  rebels.  These  subversive  minds!  These 
intellectual  debauches!  My  existence  has  been  built 
on  fidelity.  It's  a  feeling.  To  defend  it  I  am  ready  to 
lay  down  my  life — and  even  my  honor — if  that  were 
needed.  But  pray  tell  me  what  honor  can  there  be  as 
against  rebels — against  people  that  deny  God  Himself — 
perfect  unbelievers  ?    Brutes!    It  is  horrible  to  think  of." 

During  this  tirade  Razumov,  facing  the  General,  had 

nodded  slightly  twice.     Prince  K ,  standing  on  one 

side  with  his  grand  air,  murmured,  casting  up  his  eyes: 

''Helasr 

Then,  lowering  his  glance  and  with  great  decision, 
declared : 

"This  young  man,  General,  is  perfectly  fit  to  appre- 
hend the  bearing  of  your  memorable  words." 

The  General's  whole  expression  changed  from  dull  re- 
sentment to  perfect  urbanity. 

'  "I  would  ask  now  Mr.  Razumov,"  he  said,  "to  return 
to  his  home.  Note  that  I  don't  ask  Mr.  Razumov 
whether  he  has  justified  his  absence  to  his  guest.  No 
doubt  he  did  this  sufficiently.  But  I  don't  ask.  Mr. 
Razumov  inspires  confidence.  It  is  a  great  gift.  I  only 
suggest  that  a  more  prolonged  absence  might  awaken 

49 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

the  criminal's  suspicions  and  induce  him,  perhaps,  to 
change  his  plans." 

He  rose  and  with  scrupulous  courtesy  escorted  his 
visitors  to  the  anteroom  encumbered  with  flower-pots. 

Razumov  parted  with  the  Prince  at  the  corner  of  a 
street.  In  the  carriage  he  had  listened  to  speeches 
where  natural  sentiment  struggled  with  caution.  Evi- 
dently the  Prince  was  afraid  of  encouraging  any  hopes 
of  future  intercourse.  But  there  was  a  touch  of  tender- 
ness in  the  voice  uttering  in  the  dark  the  guarded 
general  phrases  of  good- will.     And  the  Prince  said: 

'*I  have  perfect  confidence  in  you,  Mr.  Razumov." 

**They  all,  it  seems,  have  confidence  in  me,"  thought 
Razumov,  dully.  He  had  an  indulgent  contempt  for 
the  man  sitting  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him  in  the  con- 
fined space.  Probably  he  was  afraid  of  scenes  with  his 
wife.     She  was  said  to  be  proud  and  violent. 

It  seemed  to  him  bizarre  that  secrecy  should  play  such 
a  large  part  in  the  comfort  and  safety  of  lives.  But  he 
wanted  to  put  the  Prince's  mind  at  ease;  and  with  a 
proper  amount  of  emphasis  he  said  that,  being  conscious 
of  some  small  abilities  and  confident  in  his  power  of  work, 
he  trusted  his  future  to  his  own  exertions.  He  pro- 
tested his  gratitude  for  the  helping  hand.  Such  dan- 
gerous situations  did  not  occur  twice  in  the  course  of  one 
life,  he  added. 

"And  you  have  met  it  with  a  firmness  of  mind  and 
correctness  of  feeling  which  give  me  a  high  idea  of  your 
worth,"  the  Prince  said,  solemnly.  ''You  have  now 
only  to  persevere — to  persevere." 

On  getting  out  on  the  pavement  Razumov  saw  an  un- 
gloved hand  extended  to  him  through  the  lowered  win- 
dow of  the  brougham.  It  detained  his  own  in  its  grasp 
for  a  moment,  while  the  light  of  a  street  lamp  fell  upon 
the  Prince's  long  face  and  old-fashioned  gray  whiskers. 

"  I  hope  you  are  perfectly  reassured  now  as  to  the  con- 
sequences. ..." 

50 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"After  what  your  Excellency  has  condescended  to  do 
for  me,  I  can  only  rely  on  my  conscience." 

"Adieu,"  said  the  whiskered  head  with  feeling. 

Razumov  bowed.  The  brougham  glided  away  with 
a  slight  swish  in  the  snow — he  was  alone  on  the  edge  of 
the  pavement. 

He  said  to  himself  that  there  was  nothing  to  think 
about,  and  began  walking  toward  his  home. 

He  walked  quietly.  It  was  a  common  experience  to 
walk  thus  home  to  bed  after  an  evening  spent  somewhere 
with  his  fellows  or  in  the  cheaper  seats  of  a  theater. 
After  he  had  gone  a  little  way  the  familiarity  of  things 
got  hold  of  him.  Nothing  was  changed.  There  was  the 
familiar  comer,  and  when  he  turned  it  he  saw  the 
familiar  dim  light  of  the  provision  shop  kept  by  a  German 
woman.  There  were  loaves  of  stale  bread,  bunches  of 
onions,  and  strings  of  sausages  behind  the  small  window- 
panes.  They  were  closing  it.  The  sickly,  lame  fellow 
whom  he  knew  so  well  by  sight  staggered  out  into  the 
snow  embracing  a  large  shutter. 

Nothing  would  change.  There  was  the  familiar  gate- 
way yawning  black  with  feeble  glimmers  marking  the 
arches  of  the  different  staircases. 

The  sense  of  life's  continuity  depended  on  trifling 
bodily  impressions.  The  trivialities  of  daily  existence 
were  an  armor  for  the  soul.  And  this  thought  rein- 
forced the  inward  quietness  of  Razumov  as  he  began  to 
climb  the  stairs  familiar  to  his  feet  in  the  dark,  with  his 
hand  on  the  familiar  clammy  banister.  The  exceptional 
could  not  prevail  against  the  material  contacts  which 
make  one  day  resemble  another.  To-morrow  would  be 
like  yesterday. 

It  was  only  on  the  stage  that  the  unusual  was  out- 
wardly acknowledged. 

"I  suppose,"  thought  Razumov,  "that  if  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  to  blow  out  my  brains  on  the  landing  I 
would  be  going  up  these  stairs  as  quietly  as  I  am  doing 

S? 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

it  now.  What's  a  man  to  do  ?  What  must  be  must  be. 
Extraordinary  things  do  happen.  But  when  they  have 
happened  they  are  done  with.  Thus,  too,  when  the 
mind  is  made  up.  That  question  is  done  with.  And 
the  daily  concerns,  the  famiHarities  of  our  thought 
swallow  it  up — and  the  life  goes  on  as  before,  with  its 
mysterious  and  secret  sides  quite  out  of  sight,  as  they 
should  be.     Life  is  a  public  thing." 

Razumov  unlocked  his  door  and  took  the  key  out; 
entered  very  quietly  and  bolted  the  door  behind  him 
carefully. 

He  thought:  **He  hears  me."  And  after  bolting  the 
door  he  stood  still,  holding  his  breath.  There  was  not  a 
sound.  He  crossed  the  bare  outer  room,  stepping  de- 
liberately in  the  darkness.  Entering  the  other,  he  felt 
all  over  his  table  for  the  match-box.  The  silence,  but 
for  the  groping  of  his  hand,  was  profound.  Could  the 
fellow  be  sleeping  so  soundly? 

He  struck  a  light  and  looked  at  the  bed.  Hal  din  was 
lying  on  his  back  as  before,  only  both  his  hands  were 
under  his  head.  His  eyes  were  open.  He  stared  at 
the  ceiling. 

Razumov  held  the  match  up.  He  saw  the  clear-cut 
features,  the  firm  chin,  the  white  forehead,  and  the  top- 
knot of  fair  hair  against  the  white  pillow.  There  he 
was,  lying  flat  on  his  back.  Razumov  thought  sudden- 
ly, "I  have  walked  over  his  chest." 

He  continued  to  stare  till  the  match  burned  itself  out ; 
then  struck  another  and  lit  the  lamp  in  silence  without 
looking  toward  the  bed  any  more.  He  had  turned  his 
back  on  it,  and  was  hanging  his  coat  on  a  peg  when 
he  heard  Haldin  sigh  profoundly,  then  ask  in  a  tired 
voice : 

"Well!     And  what  have  you  arranged?" 

The  emotion  was  so  great  that  Razumov  was  glad 
to  put  his  hands  against  the  wall.  A  diabolic  impulse 
to  say,  **I  have  given  you  up  to  the  police,",  frightened 

53 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

him  exceedingly.  But  he  did  not  say  that.  He  said, 
without  turning  round,  in  a  muffled  voice: 

"It's  done." 

Again  he  heard  Haldin  sigh.  He  walked  to  the  table, 
sat  down  with  the  lamp  before  him,  and  only  then  looked 
toward  the  bed. 

In  the  distant  corner  of  the  large  room,  far  away  from 
the  lamp,  which  was  small  and  provided  with  a  very 
thick  china  shade,  Haldin  appeared  like  a  dark  and 
elongated  shape — rigid  with  the  immobility  of  death. 
This  body  seemed  to  have  less  substance  than  its  own 
phantom  walked  over  by  Razumov  in  the  street  white 
with  snow.  It  was  more  alarming  in  its  shadowy,  per- 
sistent reality,  than  the  distinct  but  vanishing  illusion. 

Haldin  was  heard  again. 

"You  must  have  had  a  walk — such  a  walk,  .  .  ."he 
murmured,  deprecatingly.     "This  weather  .  .  .'* 

Razumov  answered  with  energy: 

"Horrible  walk.  ...  A  nightmare  of  a  walk." 

He  shuddered  audibly.  Haldin  sighed  once  more, 
then: 

"And  so  you  have  seen  Ziemianitch — brother?" 

"I've  seen  him." 

Razumov,  remembering  the  time  he  had  spent  with 
the  Prince,  thought  it  prudent  to  add:  "I  had  to  wait 
some  time." 

"A  character — eh?  It's  extraordinary  what  a  sense 
of  the  necessity  of  freedom  there  is  in  that  man.  And 
he  has  sayings,  too — simple,  to  the  point,  such  as  only 
the  people  can  invent  in  their  rough  sagacity.  A  char- 
acter that  ..." 

"I,  you  understand,  haven't  had  much  opportuni- 
ty .  .  ."  Razumov  muttered,  through  his  teeth. 

Haldin  continued  to  stare  at  the  ceiling. 

"You  see,  brother,  I  have  been  a  good  deal  in  that 
house  of  late.  I  used  to  take  there  books — leaflets. 
Not  a  few  of  the  poor  people  who  live  there  can  read. 

S3 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

And,  you  see,  the  guests  for  the  feast  of  freedom  must 
be  sought  for  in  byways  and  hedges.  The  truth  is,  I 
have  almost  Hved  in  that  house  of  late.  I  slept  some- 
times in  the  stable.     There  is  a  stable  ..." 

''That's  where  I  had  my  interview  with  Ziemianitch," 
interrupted  Razumov,  gently.  A  mocking  spirit  entered 
into  him,  and  he  added:  "  It  was  satisfactory,  in  a  sense. 
I  came  away  from  it  much  relieved." 

"Ah!  he's  a  fellow,"  went  on  Haldin,  talking  slowly 
at  the  ceiling.  **I  came  to  know  him  in  that  way,  you 
see.  For  some  weeks  now,  ever  since  I  resigned  my- 
self to  do  what  had  to  be  done,  I  tried  to  isolate  myself. 
I  gave  up  my  rooms.  What  was  the  good  of  exposing 
a  decent  widow  woman  to  the  risk  of  being  worried  out 
of  her  mind  by  the  police  ?  I  gave  up  seeing  any  of  our 
comrades.  ..." 

Razumov  drew  to  himself  a  half-sheet  of  paper  and 
began  to  trace  lines  on  it  with  a  pencil. 

**Upon  my  w^ord,"  he  thought,  angrily,  "he  seems 
to  have  thought  of  everybody's  safety  but  mine." 

Haldin  was  talking  on. 

"This  morning — ah,  this  morning! — that  was  differ- 
ent. How  can  I  explain  to  you?  Before  the  deed  was 
done  I  wandered  at  night  and  lay  hid  in  the  day,  think- 
ing it  out,  and  I  felt  restful.  Sleepless  but  restful. 
What  was  there  for  me  to  torment  myself  about?  But 
this  morning — after!  Then  it  was  that  I  became  rest- 
less. I  could  not  have  stopped  in  that  big  house  full 
of  misery.  The  miserable  of  this  world  can't  give 
you  peace.  Then,  when  that  silly  caretaker  began  to 
shout,  I  said  to  myself,  'There  is  a  young  man  in 
this  town  head  and  shoulders  above  common  preju- 
dices.'" 

"Is  he  laughing  at  me?"  Razumov  asked  himself, 
going  on  with  his  aimless  drawing  of  triangles  and 
squares.  And  suddenly  he  thought:  "My  behavior 
must  appear  to  him  strange.     Should  he  take  fright  at 

54 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

my  manner  and  rush  off  somewhere  I  shall  be  undone 
completely.     That  infernal  General  ..." 

He  dropped  the  pencil  and  turned  abruptly  toward 
the  bed  with  the  shadowy  figure  extended  full  length 
on  it — so  much  more  indistinct  than  the  one  over  whose 
breast  he  had  walked  without  faltering.  Was  this,  too, 
a  phantom? 

The  silence  had  lasted  a  long  time.  "He  is  no  longer 
here,"  was  the  thought  against  which  Razumov  struggled 
desperately,  quite  frightened  at  its  absurdity.  **He  is 
already  gone  and  this  .  .  .  only  ..." 

He  could  resist  no  longer.  He  sprang  to  his  feet, 
saying  aloud:  "I  am  intolerably  anxious,"  and  in  a 
few  headlong  strides  stood  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  His 
hand  fell  lightly  on  Haldin's  shoulder,  and  directly  he 
felt  its  reality  he  was  beset  by  an  insane  temptation  to 
grip  that  exposed  throat  and  squeeze  the  breath  out  of 
that  body,  lest  it  should  escape  his  custody,  leaving  only 
a  phantom  behind. 

Haldin  did  not  stir  a  limb,  but  his  overshadowed  eyes, 
moving  a  little,  gazed  upward  at  Razumov  with  wistful 
gratitude  for  this  manifestation  of  feeling. 

Razumov  turned  away  and  strode  up  and  down  the 
room.  "It  would  have  been  possibly  a  kindness,"  he 
muttered  to  himself,  and  was  appalled  by  the  nature  of 
that  apology  for  a  murderous  intention  his  mind  had 
found  somewhere  within  him.  And  all  the  same  he 
could  not  give  it  up.  He  became  lucid  about  it.  "  What 
can  he  expect?"  he  thought.  "The  halter — in  the  end. 
And  I  .  .  ." 

This  argument  was  interrupted  by  Haldin 's  voice. 

"  Why  be  anxious  for  me  ?  They  can  kill  my  body  but 
they  cannot  exile  my  soul  from  this  world.  I  tell  you 
what — I  believe  in  this  world  so  much  that  I  cannot  con- 
ceive eternity  otherwise  than  as  a  very  long  life.  That 
is,  perhaps,  the  reason  I  am  so  ready  to  die." 

"H'm,"  muttered  Razumov,  and,  biting  his  lower  lip, 
5  55 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

he  continued  to  walk  up  and  down  and  to  carry  on  his 
strange  argument. 

Yes,  to  a  man  in  such  a  situation — of  course  it  would 
be  an  act  of  kindness.  The  question,  however,  is  not 
how  to  be  kind,  but  how  to  be  firm.  He  was  a  slippery- 
customer  .  .  . 

"I,  too,  Victor  Victorovitch,  believe  in  this  world  of 
ours,"  he  said,  with  force.  "I,  too,  while  I  live  .  .  . 
But  you  seem  determined  to  haunt  it.  You  can't 
seriously  mean  ..." 

The  voice  of  the  motionless  Haldin  began : 

"Haunt  it!  Truly,  the  oppressors  of  thought  which 
quickens  the  world,  the  destroyers  of  souls  which  aspire 
to  perfection  of  human  dignity,  they  shall  be  haunted. 
As  to  the  destroyers  of  my  mere  body,  I  have  forgiven 
them  beforehand." 

Razumov  had  stopped,  apparently  to  listen,  but  at 
the  same  time  he  was  observing  his  own  sensations. 
He  was  vexed  with  himself  for  attaching  so  much  im- 
portance to  what  Haldin  said. 

"The  fellow's  mad,"  he  thought,  firmly,  but  this 
opinion  did  not  mollify  him  toward  Haldin.  It  was  a 
particularly  impudent  form  of  lunacy,  and,  when  it  got 
loose  in  the  sphere  of  public  life  of  a  country,  it  was 
obviously  the  duty  of  every  good  citizen  .  .  . 

This  train  of  thought  broke  off  short  there  and  was 
succeeded  by  a  paroxysm  of  silent  hatred  toward  Hal- 
din, so  intense  that  Razumov  hastened  to  speak  at 
random. 

"Yes,  eternity,  of  course.  I,  too,  can't  very  well 
represent  it  to  myself.  ...  I  imagine  it,  however,  as 
something  quiet  and  dull.  There  would  be  nothing  un- 
expected— don't  you  see?  The  element  of  time  would 
be  wanting." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch  and  gazed  at  it.  Haldin 
turned  over  on  his  side  and  looked  on  intently. 

Razumov  got  frightened  at  this  movement.     A  slip- 

S6 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

pery  customer,  this  fellow  with  a  phantom.  It  was  not 
midnight  yet.     He  hastened  on. 

**And  unfathomable  mysteries!  Can  you  conceive 
secret  places  in  eternity?  Impossible.  Whereas  life  is 
full  of  them.  There  are  secrets  of  birth,  for  instance. 
One  carries  them  on  to  the  grave.  There  is  something 
comical  .  .  .  but  never  mind.  And  there  are  secret 
motives  of  conduct.  A  man's  most  open  actions  have  a 
secret  side  to  them.  That  is  interesting  and  so  un- 
fathomable !  For  instance,  a  man  goes  out  of  a  room  for 
a  walk.  Nothing  more  trivial  in  appearance.  And  yet 
it  may  be  momentous.  He  comes  back — he  has  seen, 
perhaps,  a  drunken  brute,  taken  particular  notice  of  the 
snow  on  the  ground — and,  behold,  he  is  no  longer  the 
same  man.  The  most  unlikely  things  have  a  secret 
power  over  one's  thoughts — the  gray  whiskers  of  a  par- 
ticular person — the  goggle  eyes  of  another." 

Razumov's  forehead  was  moist.  He  took  a  turn  or 
two  in  the  room,  his  head  low  and  smiling  to  himself 
viciously. 

"Have  you  ever  reflected  on  the  power  of  goggle  eyes 
and  gray  whiskers?  Excuse  me.  You  seem  to  think  I 
must  be  crazy  to  talk  in  this  vein  at  such  a  time.  But  I 
am  not  talking  lightly.  I  have  seen  instances.  It  has 
happened  to  me  once  to  be  talking  to  a  man  whose  fate 
was  affected  by  physical  facts  of  that  kind.  And  the 
man  did  not  know  it.  Of  course,  it  was  a  case  of  con- 
science, but  the  material  facts  such  as  these  brought 
about  the  solution.  .  .  .  And  you  tell  me,  Victor 
Victorovitch,  not  to  be  anxious!  Why!  I  am  respon- 
sible for  you,"  Razumov  almost  shrieked. 

He  avoided  with  difficulty  a  burst  of  Mephistophelian 
laughter.  Haldin,  very  pale,  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow. 

"And  the  surprises  of  life,"  went  on  Razumov,  after 
glancing  at  the  other  uneasily.  "Just  consider  their 
astonishing  nature.     A  mysterious  impulse  induces  you 

57 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

to  come  here.  I  don't  say  you  have  done  wrong.  In- 
deed, from  a  certain  point  of  view  you  could  not  have 
done  better.  You  might  have  gone  to  a  man  with  af- 
fections and  family  ties.  You  have  such  ties  yourself. 
As  to  me,  you  know  I  have  been  brought  up  in  an 
educational  institute  where  they  did  not  give  us  enough 
to  eat.  To  talk  of  affection  in  such  a  connection — you 
perceive  yourself.  ...  As  to  ties,  the  only  ties  I  have 
in  the  world  are  social.  I  must  get  acknowledged  in 
some  way  before  I  can  act  at  all.  I  sit  here  working  .  .  . 
And  don't  you  think  I  am  working  for  progress,  too? 
I've  got  to  find  my  own  ideas  of  the  true  way.  .  .  . 
Pardon  me,"  continued  Razumov,  after  drawing  breath, 
and  with  a  short,  throaty  laugh,  "but  I  haven't  inherited 
a  revolutionary  inspiration  together  with  a  resemblance 
from  an  uncle." 

He  looked  again  at  his  watch,  and  noticed  with  sicken- 
ing disgust  that  there  were  yet  a  good  many  minutes 
to  midnight.  He  tore  watch  and  chain  off  his  waist- 
coat and  laid  them  on  the  table  well  in  the  circle  of 
bright  lamplight.  Haldin,  reclining  on  his  elbow,  did 
not  stir.  Razumov  was  made  uneasy  by  this  attitude. 
"What  move  is  he  meditating  over  so  quietly?"  he 
thought.  "He  must  be  prevented.  I  must  keep  on 
talking  to  him." 

He  raised  his  voice. 

"You  are  a  son,  a  brother,  a  nephew,  a  cousin — I 
don't  know  what — to  no  end  of  people.  I  am  just  a 
man.  Here  I  stand  before  you.  A  man  with  a  mind. 
Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  how  a  man  who  had  never 
heard  a  word  of  warm  affection  or  praise  in  his  life 
would  think  on  matters  on  which  you  would  think  first 
with  or  against  your  class,  your  domestic  tradition — 
your  fireside  prejudices  ?  .  .  .  Did  you  ever  consider  how 
a  man  like  that  would  feel?  I  have  no  domestic  tradi- 
tion. I  have  nothing  to  think  against.  My  tradi- 
tion is  historical.     What  have  I  to  look  back  to  but 

53 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

that  national  past  from  which  you  gentlemen  want  to 
wrench  away  your  future  ?  Am  I  to  let  my  intelligence, 
my  aspirations  toward  a  better  lot,  be  robbed  of  the 
only  thing  it  has  to  go  upon  at  the  will  of  violent  en- 
thusiasts? You  come  from  your  province,  but  all  this 
land  is  mine — or  I  have  nothing.  No  doubt  you  shall 
be  looked  upon  as  a  martyr  some  day — a  sort  of  hero — 
a  political  saint.  But  I  beg  to  be  excused.  I  am  con- 
tent in  fitting  myself  to  be  a  worker.  And  what  can 
you  people  do  by  scattering  a  few  drops  of  blood  on 
the  snow?  On  this  Immensity?  On  this  unhappy 
Immensity?  I  tell  you,"  he  cried,  in  a  vibrating,  sub- 
dued voice  and  advancing  one  step  nearer  the  bed, 
"that  what  it  needs  is  not  a  lot  of  haunting  phantoms 
that  I  could  walk  through — ^but  a  man!" 

Haldin  threw  his  arms  forward  as  if  to  keep  him  off 
in  horror. 

"I  understand  it  all  now,"  he  exclaimed,  with  awe- 
struck dismay.     "I  understand — at  last." 

Razumov  staggered  back  against  the  table.  His  fore- 
head broke  out  in  perspiration,  while  a  cold  shudder  ran 
down  his  spine. 

**  What  have  I  been  saying  ?"  he  asked  himself.  **  Have 
I  let  him  slip  through  my  fingers,  after  all?" 

He  felt  his  lips  go  stiff  like  buckram,  and  instead  of  a 
reassuring  smile  he  only  achieved  an  uncertain  grimace. 

"What  will  you  have?"  he  began,  in  a  conciliating 
voice,  which  got  steady  after  the  first  trembling  word 
or  two.  "What  will  you  have?  Consider — a  man  of 
studious,  retired  habits — and  suddenly  like  this.  ...  I 
am  not  practised  in  talking  delicately.     But  ..." 

He  felt  anger,  a  wicked  anger,  get  hold  of  him  again. 

"  What  were  we  to  do  together  till  midnight  ?  Sit  here 
opposite  each  other  and  think  of  your — your — shambles  ?" 

Haldin  had  a  subdued,  heartbroken  attitude.  He 
bowed  his  head;  his  hands  hung  between  his  knees. 
His  voice  was  low  and  pained,  but  calm. 

59 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"I  see  now  how  it  is,  Razumov  —  brother.  You  are 
a  magnanimous  soul,  but  my  action  is  abhorrent  to  you 
—alas  .  .  ." 

Razumov  stared.  From  fright  he  had  set  his  teeth 
so  hard  that  his  whole  face  ached.  It  was  impossible 
for  him  to  make  a  sound. 

"And  even  my  person,  too,  is  loathsome  to  you,  per- 
haps," Haldin  added,  mournfully,  after  a  short  pause, 
looking  up  for  a  moment,  then  fixing  his  gaze  on  the 
floor.     **For,  indeed,  unless  one  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off,  evidently  waiting  for  a  word.  Razumov 
remained  silent.  Haldin  nodded  his  head  dejectedly 
twice. 

**0f  course.  Of  course,"  he  murmured.  .  .  .  "Ah! 
weary  work!" 

He  remained  perfectly  still  for  a  moment,  then  made 
Razumov's  leaden  heart  strike  a  ponderous  blow  by 
springing  up  briskly. 

"So  be  it,"  he  cried,  sadly,  in  a  low,  distinct  tone. 
"Farewell   then." 

Razumov  started  forward,  but  the  sight  of  Haldin's 
raised  hand  checked  him  before  he  could  get  away  from 
the  table.  He  leaned  on  it  heavily,  listening  to  the 
faint  sounds  of  some  town  clock  tolling  the  hour.  Hal- 
din already  at  the  door,  tall  and  straight  as  an  arrow, 
with  his  pale  face  and  a  hand  raised  attentively,  might 
have  posed  for  the  statue  of  a  daring  youth  listening 
to  an  inner  voice.  Razumov  mechanically  glanced 
down  at  his  watch.  When  he  looked  toward  the  door 
again  Haldin  had  vanished.  There  was  a  faint  rustling 
in  the  outer  room,  the  feeble  click  of  a  bolt  drawn  back 
lightly.     He  was  gone — almost  as  noiseless  as  a  vision. 

Razumov  ran  forward  unsteadily,  with  parted,  voice- 
less lips.  The  outer  door  stood  open.  Staggering  on 
the  landing,  he  leaned  far  over  the  banister.  Gazing 
down  into  the  deep  black  shaft,  with  a  tiny,  glimmering 
flame  at  the  bottom,  he  traced  by  ear  the  rapid  spiral 

60 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

descent  of  somebody  running  down  the  stairs  on  tip- 
toe. It  was  a  light,  swift,  pattering  sound,  that  sank 
away  from  him  into  the  depths;  a  fleeting  shadow 
passed  over  the  glimmer — a  wink  of  the  tiny  flame. 
Then  stillness. 

Razumov  hung  over,  breathing  the  cold,  raw  air 
tainted  by  the  evil  smells  of  the  unclean  staircases.  All 
quiet. 

He  went  back  into  his  room,  slowly  shutting  the  doors 
after  him.  The  peaceful,  steady  light  of  his  little  read- 
ing-lamp shone  on  the  watch.  Razumov  stood  looking 
down  at  the  little  white  dial.  It  wanted  yet  three 
minutes  to  midnight.  He  took  the  watch  into  his 
hand,  fumblingly. 

"Slow,"  he  muttered,  and  a  strange  fit  of  nerveless- 
ness  came  over  him.  His  knees  shook,  the  watch  and 
chain  slipped  through  his  fingers  in  an  instant  and  fell 
on  the  floor.  He  was  so  startled  that  he  nearly  fell 
himself.  When  at  last  he  regained  enough  confidence 
in  his  limbs  to  stoop  for  it,  he  held  it  to  his  ear  at  once. 
After  a  while  he  growled: 

"Stopped!"  and  paused  for  quite  a  long  time  before 
he  muttered,  sourly: 

"It's  done.  .  .  .  And  now  to  work." 

He  sat  down,  reached  haphazard  for  a  book,  opened 
it  in  the  middle  and  began  to  read;  but  after  going  con- 
sciously over  two  lines  he  lost  his  hold  on  the  print 
completely  and  did  not  try  to  regain  it.     He  thought: 

"There  was  to  a  certainty  a  police  agent  of  some  sort 
watching  the  house  across  the  street." 

He  imagined  him  lurking  in  a  dark  gateway,  goggle- 
eyed,  muffled  up  in  a  cloak  to  the  nose,  and  with  a  gen- 
eral's plumed,  cocked  hat  on  his  head.  This  absurdity 
made  him  start  in  the  chair  convulsively.  He  literally 
had  to  shake  his  head  violently  to  get  rid  of  it.  The 
man  would  be  disguised,  perhaps,  as  a  peasant  ...  a 
beggar.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  would  be  just  buttoned  up  in  a 

6i 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

dark  overcoat  and  carrying  a  loaded  stick — a  shifty- 
eyed  rascal,  smelling  of  raw  onions  and  spirits. 

This  evocation  brought  on  positive  nausea.  "Why 
do  I  want  to  bother  about  this?"  thought  Razumov, 
with  disgust.  "Am  I  a  gendarme?  Moreover,  it  is 
done." 

He  got  up  in  great  agitation.  It  was  not  done.  Not 
yet.  Not  till  half -past  twelve.  And  the  watch  had 
stopped.  This  reduced  him  to  despair.  Impossible  to 
know  the  time !  The  landlady  and  all  the  people  across 
the  landing  were  asleep.  How  could  he  go  and  .  .  .  God 
knows  what  they  would  imagine,  or  how  much  they 
would  guess.  He  dared  not  go  into  the  streets  to  find 
out.  "I  am  a  suspect  now.  There's  no  use  shirking 
that  fact,"  he  said  to  himself,  bitterly.  If  Hal  din  from 
some  cause  or  another  gave  them  the  slip  and  failed  to 
turn  up  in  the  Karabelnaya,  the  police  would  be  in- 
vading his  lodging.  And  if  he  were  not  in  he  could  never 
clear  himself.  Never.  Razumov  looked  wildly  about, 
as  if  for  some  means  of  seizing  upon  time  which  seemed 
to  have  escaped  him  altogether.  He  had  never,  as  far 
as  he  could  remember,  heard  the  striking  of  that  town 
clock  in  his  rooms  before  this  night.  And  he  was  not 
even  sure  now  whether  he  had  heard  it  really  on  this 
night. 

He  went  to  the  window  and  stood  there  with  slightly 
bent  head  on  the  watch  for  the  faint  sound.  "  I  will  stay 
here  till  I  hear  something,"  he  said  to  himself.  He  stood 
still,  his  ear  turned  to  the  panes.  An  atrocious  aching 
numbness  with  shooting  pains  in  his  back  and  legs  tort- 
ured him.  He  did  not  budge.  His  mind  hovered  on 
the  borders  of  delirium.  He  heard  himself  suddenly 
saying,  "I  confess,"  as  a  person  might  do  on  the  rack. 
"I  am  on  the  rack,"  he  thought.  He  felt  ready  to 
swoon.  The  faint,  deep  boom  of  the  distant  clock 
seemed  to  explode  in  his  head — he  heard  it  so  clearly. 
.  .  .  One! 

62 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

If  Haldin  had  not  turned  up,  the  police  would  have 
been  already  here  ransacking  the  house.  No  sound 
reached  him.     This  time  it  was  done. 

He  dragged  himself  painfully  to  the  table  and  dropped 
into  the  chair.  He  flung  the  book  away  and  took  a 
square  sheet  of  paper.  It  was  like  the  pile  of  sheets 
covered  with  his  neat,  minute  handwriting,  only  blank. 
He  took  a  pen  brusquely  and  dipped  it  with  a  vague 
notion  of  going  on  with  the  writing  of  his  essay — ^but  his 
pen  remained  poised  over  the  sheet.  It  hung  there  for 
some  time  before  it  came  down  and  formed  long,  scrawly 
letters. 

Still  -  faced  and  his  lips  set  hard,  Razumov  began  to 
write.  When  he  wrote  a  large  hand  his  neat  handwrit- 
ing lost  its  character  altogether — became  unsteady,  al- 
most childish.     He  wrote  five  lines,  one  under  the  other: 

History,  not  Theory. 
Patriotism,  not  Internationalism. 
Evolution,  not  Revolution. 
Direction,  not  Destruction. 
Unity,  not  Disruption. 

He  gazed  at  them  dully.  Then  his  eyes  strayed  to 
the  bed,  and  remained  fixed  there  for  a  good  many 
minutes,  while  his  right  hand  groped  all  over  the  table 
for  the  penknife. 

He  rose  at  last,  and,  walking  up  with  measured  steps, 
stabbed  the  paper  with  the  penknife  to  the  lath-and- 
plaster  wall  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  This  done  he 
stepped  back  a  pace  and  flourished  his  hand  with  a 
glance  round  the  room. 

After  that  he  never  looked  again  at  the  bed.  He 
took  his  big  cloak  down  from  its  peg,  and,  wrapping  him- 
self up  closely,  went  to  lie  down  on  the  hard  horsehair 
sofa  at  the  other  side  of  his  room.  A  leaden  sleep 
closed  his  eyelids  at  once.  Several  times  that  night  he 
woke  up  shivering  from  a  dream  of  walking  through 

63 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

drifts  of  snow  in  a  Russia  where  he  was  as  com- 
pletely alone  as  any  betrayed  autocrat  could  be;  an 
immense  wintry  Russia  which  somehow  his  view  could 
embrace  in  all  its  enormous  expanse  as  if  it  were  a  map. 
But  after  each  shuddering  start  his  heavy  eyelids  fell 
over  his  glazed  eyes  and  he  slept  again. 


Ill 


APPROACHING  this  part  of  Mr.  Razumov's  story, 
r\  my  mind,  the  decent  mind  of  an  old  teacher  of 
languages,  feels  more  and  more  the  difficulty  of  the  task. 

The  task  is  not,  in  truth,  the  writing  in  the  narrative 
form  a  precis  of  a  strange  human  document,  but  the 
rendering — I  perceive  it  now  clearly — of  the  moral  con- 
ditions ruling  over  a  large  portion  of  this  earth's  surface; 
conditions  not  easily  to  be  understood,  much  less  dis- 
covered in  the  limits  of  a  story,  till  some  key-word  is 
found;  a  word  that  could  stand  at  the  back  of  all 
the  words  covering  the  pages;  a  word  which,  if  not 
truth  itself,  may,  perchance,  hold  truth  enough  to 
help  the  moral  discovery  which  should  be  the  object 
of  every  tale. 

I  turn  over  for  the  hundredth  time  the  leaves  of  Mr. 
Razumov's  record,  I  lay  it  aside,  I  take  up  the  pen — and, 
the  pen  being  ready  for  its  office  of  setting  down  black 
on  white,  I  hesitate.  For  the  word  that  persists  in  creep- 
ing under  its  point  is  no  other  word  than  "  cynicism." 

For  that  is  the  mark  of  Russian  autocracy  and  of 
Russian  revolt.  In  its  pride  of  numbers,  in  its  strange 
pretensions  of  sanctity,  and  in  the  secret  readiness  to 
abase  itself  in  suffering,  the  spirit  of  Russia  is  the  spirit 
of  cynicism.  It  informs  the  declarations  of  her  states- 
men, the  theories  of  her  revolutionists,  and  the  mystic 
vaticinations  of  prophets  to  the  point  of  making  freedom 
look  like  a  fonn  of  debauch,  and  the  Christian  virtues 
themselves  appear  actually  indecent.  .  .  .  But  I  must 
apologize  for  the  digression.     It  proceeds  from  the  con- 

6s 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

sideration  of  the  course  taken  by  the  story  of  Mr. 
Razumov  after  his  conservative  convictions  diluted  in  a 
vague  liberalism  natural  to  the  ardor  of  his  age  had  be- 
come crystallized  by  the  shock  of  his  contact  with  Haldin. 

Razumov  woke  up  for  the  tenth  time,  perhaps,  with  a 
heavy  shiver.  Seeing  the  light  of  day  in  his  window,  he 
resisted  the  inclination  to  lay  himself  down  again.  He 
did  not  remember  anything,  but  he  did  not  think  it 
strange  to  find  himself  on  the  sofa  in  his  cloak  and  chilled 
to  the  bone.  The  light  coming  through  the  window 
seemed  strangely  cheerless,  containing  no  promise  as  the 
light  of  each  new  day  should  for  a  young  man.  It  was  the 
awakening  of  a  man  mortally  ill,  or  of  a  man  ninety  years 
old.  He  looked  at  the  lamp,  which  had  burned  itself  out. 
It  stood  there,  the  extinguished  beacon  of  his  labors,  a 
cold  object  of  brass  and  porcelain,  among  the  scattered 
pages  of  his  notes  and  small  piles  of  books — a  mere  litter 
of  blackened  paper — dead  matter — without  significance 
or  interest. 

He  got  on  his  feet,  and,  divesting  himself  of  his  cloak, 
hung  it  on  the  peg,  going  through  all  the  motions  me- 
chanically. An  incredible  dullness,  a  ditch-water  stag- 
nation, was  sensible  to  his  perceptions  as  though  life  had 
withdrawn  itself  from  all  things  and  even  from  his  own 
thoughts.     There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  house. 

Turning  away  from  the  peg,  he  thought  in  that  same 
lifeless  manner  that  it  must  be  very  early  yet ;  but  when 
he  looked  at  the  watch  on  his  table  he  saw  both  hands 
arrested  at  twelve  o'clock. 

**Ah!  yes,"  he  mumbled  to  himself,  and,  as  if  begin- 
ning to  get  roused  a  little,  he  took  a  survey  of  his  room. 
The  paper  stabbed  to  the  wall  arrested  his  attention. 
He  eyed  it  from  the  distance  without  approval  or  per- 
plexity; but  when  he  heard  the  servant  girl  beginning 
to  bustle  about  in  the  outer  room  with  the  samovar  for  his 
morning  tea,  he  walked  up  to  it  and  took  it  down  with  an 
air  of  profound  indifference. 

66 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

While  doing  that  he  glanced  down  at  the  bed  on 
which  he  had  not  slept  that  night.  The  hollow  in  the 
pillow  made  by  the  weight  of  Haldin's  head  was  very 
noticeable. 

Even  his  anger  at  this  sign  of  the  man's  passage  was 
dull.  He  did  not  try  to  nurse  it  into  life.  He  did  noth- 
ing all  that  day;  he  neglected  even  to  brush  his  hair. 
The  idea  of  going  out  never  occurred  to  him — and,  if  he 
did  not  start  a  connected  train  of  thought,  it  was  not 
because  he  was  unable  to  think.  It  was  because  he  was 
not  interested  enough. 

He  yawned  frequently.  He  drank  large  quantities 
of  tea.  He  walked  about  aimlessly,  and  when  he  sat 
down  he  did  not  budge  for  a  long  time.  He  spent  some 
time  drumming  on  the  window  with  his  finger-tips 
quietly.  In  his  listless  wanderings  round  about  the 
table  he  caught  sight  of  his  own  face  in  the  looking-glass, 
and  that  arrested  him.  The  eyes  which  returned  his 
stare  were  the  most  unhappy  eyes  he  had  ever  seen. 
And  this  was  the  first  thing  that  disturbed  the  mental 
stagnation  of  that  day. 

He  was  not  affected  personally.  He  merely  thought 
that  life  without  happiness  is  impossible.  What  was 
happiness  ?  He  yawned  and  went  on  shuffling  about  and 
about  between  the  walls  of  his  room.  Looking  forward 
was  happiness — that's  all — nothing  more.  To  look  for- 
ward to  the  gratification  of  some  desire,  to  the  gratifica- 
tion of  some  passion,  love,  ambition,  hate — hate,  too, 
indubitably  love  and  hate.  And  to  escape  the  dangers 
of  existence,  to  live  without  fear,  was  also  happiness. 
There  was  nothing  else.  Absence  of  fear — looking  for- 
ward. **0h!  the  miserable  lot  of  humanity!"  he  ex- 
claimed, mentally,  and  added  at  once  in  his  thought: 
**  I  ought  to  be  happy  enough,  as  far  as  that  goes."  But 
he  was  not  excited  by  that  assurance.  On  the  contrary, 
he  yawned  again  as  he  had  been  yawning  all  that  day. 
H$  was  mildly  surprised  to  discover  himself  being  over- 

67 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

taken  by  night.  The  room  grew  dark  swiftly,  though 
time  had  seemed  to  stand  still.  How  was  it  that  he  had 
not  noticed  the  passing  of  that  day?  Of  course  it  was 
the  watch  being  stopped.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  light  his  lamp,  but  went  over  to  the  bed 
and  threw  himself  on  it  without  any  hesitation.  Lying 
on  his  back,  he  put  his  hands  under  his  head  and  stared 
upward.  After  a  moment  he  thought:  "I  am  lying 
here  like  that  man.  I  wonder  if  he  slept  while  I  was 
struggling  with  the  blizzard  in  the  streets?  No,  he  did 
not  sleep.  But  why  should  I  not  sleep?"  And  he  felt 
the  silence  of  the  night  press  upon  all  his  limbs  like  a 
weight. 

In  the  calm  of  the  hard  frost  outside,  the  clear-cut 
strokes  of  the  town  clock  counting  off  midnight  pene- 
trated the  quietness  of  his  suspended  animation. 

Again  he  began  to  think.  It  was  twenty-four  hours 
since  that  man  left  his  room.  Razumov  had  a  distinct 
feeling  that  Haldin  in  the  fortress  was  sleeping  that 
night.  It  was  a  certitude  which  made  him  angry,  be- 
cause he  did  not  want  to  think  of  Haldin,  but  he  justified 
it  to  himself  by  physiological  and  psychological  reasons. 
The  fellow  had  hardly  slept  for  weeks  on  his  own  con- 
fession, and  now  every  incertitude  was  at  an  end  for 
him.  No  doubt  he  was  looking  forward  to  the  con- 
summation of  his  martyrdom.  A  man  who  resigns  him- 
self to  kill  need  not  go  very  far  for  resignation  to  die. 

Haldin  slept,  perhaps,  more  soundly  than  General  T , 

whose  task — weary  work,  too — was  not  done,  and  over 
whose  head  hung  the  sword  of  revolutionary  vengeance. 

Razumov  remembering  the  thick-set  man  with  his 
heavy  jowl  resting  on  the  collar  of  his  uniform;  the 
champion  of  autocracy,  who  had  let  no  sign  of  surprise, 
incredulity,  or  joy  escape  him,  but  whose  goggle  eyes 
could  express  a  mortal  hatred  of  all  rebellion.  Razumov 
moved  uneasily  on  the  bed. 

**  He  suspected  me,"  he  thought.     *'  I  suppose  he  must 

68 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

suspect  everybody.  He  would  be  capable  of  suspecting 
his  own  wife,  if  Haldin  had  gone  to  her  boudoir  with  his 
confession." 

Razumov  sat  up  in  anguish.  Was  he  to  remain  a 
political  suspect  all  his  days?  Was  he  to  go  through 
life  as  a  man  not  wholly  to  be  trusted — with  a  bad  secret- 
police  note  tacked  onto  his  record  ?  What  sort  of  future 
could  he  look  forward  to? 

**I  am  now  a  suspect,"  he  thought  again;  but  the 
habit  of  reflection  and  that  desire  of  safety,  of  an  or- 
dered life,  which  was  so  strong  in  him,  came  to  his  assist- 
ance as  the  night  wore  on.  His  quiet,  steady,  and  labori- 
ous existence  would  vouch  at  length  for  his  loyalty. 
There  were  many  permitted  ways  to  serve  one's  country. 
There  was  an  activity  that  made  for  progress  without 
being  revolutionary.  The  field  of  influence  was  great 
and  infinitely  varied — once  one  had  conquered  a  name. 

His  thought,  like  a  circling  bird,  reverted  after  four- 
and-twenty  hours  to  the  silver  medal,  and,  as  it  were, 
poised  itself  there.  When  the  day  broke  he  had  not 
slept,  not  for  a  moment,  but  he  got  up  not  very  tired 
and  quite  sufficiently  self-possessed  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses. 

He  went  out  and  attended  three  lectures  in  the  morn- 
ing. But  the  work  in  the  library  was  a  mere  dumb  show 
of  research.  He  sat  with  many  volumes  open  before 
him  trying  to  make  notes  and  extracts.  His  new  tran- 
quillity was  like  a  flimsy  garment,  and  seemed  to  float 
at  the  mercy  of  a  casual  word.  Betrayal!  Why,  the 
fellow  had  done  all  that  was  necessary  to  betray  him- 
self.    Precious  little  had  been  needed  to  deceive  him. 

**  I  have  said  no  word  to  him  that  was  not  strictly  true. 
Not  one  word,"  Razumov  argued  with  himself. 

Once  engaged  on  this  line  of  thought,  there  could  be 
no  question  of  doing  useful  work.  The  same  ideas  went 
on  passing  through  his  mind,  and  he  pronounced  men- 
tally the  same  words  over  and  over  again.     He  shut  up 

69 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

all  the  books  and  rammed  all  his  papers  into  his  pocket 
with  convulsive  movements,  raging  inwardly  against 
Haldin. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  library  a  long,  bony  student 
in  a  threadbare  overcoat  joined  him,  stepping  moodily 
by  his  side,  Razumov  answered  his  mumbled  greeting 
without  looking  at  him  at  all. 

''What  does  he  want  with  me?"  he  thought,  with  a 
strange  dread  of  the  unexpected,  which  he  tried  to  shake 
off  lest  it  should  fasten  itself  upon  his  life  for  good  and 
all.  And  the  other,  muttering  cautiously  with  downcast 
eyes,  supposed  that  his  comrade  had  seen  the  news  of 

De  P 's  executioner  —  that  was  the  expression   he 

used — having  been  arrested  the  night  before  last.  .  „  . 

"I've  been  ill — shut  up  in  my  rooms,"  Razumov 
mumbled  through  his  teeth. 

The  tall  student,  raising  his  shoulders,  shoved  his 
hands  deep  into  his  pockets.  He  had  a  hairless,  square, 
tallowy  chin  which  trembled  slightly  as  he  spoke,  and 
his  nose,  nipped  bright  red  by  the  sharp  air,  looked  like 
a  false  nose  of  painted  cardboard  between  the  sallow 
cheeks.  His  whole  appearance  was  stamped  with  the 
mark  of  cold  and  hunger.  He  stalked  deliberately  at 
Razumov's  elbow  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"It's  an  official  statement,"  he  continued,  in  the 
same  cautious  mutter.  "It  may  be  a  lie.  But  there 
was  somebody  arrested  between  midnight  and  one  in 
the  morning  on  Tuesday.     This  is  certain." 

And  talking  rapidly  under  the  cover  of  his  downcast 
air,  he  told  Razumov  that  this  was  known  through  an 
inferior  Government  clerk  employed  at  the  Central 
Secretariat.  That  man  belonged  to  one  of  the  revolu- 
tionary circles.  "The  same,  in  fact,  I  am  affiliated  to," 
remarked  the  student. 

They  were  crossing  a  wide  quadrangle.  An  infinite 
distress  possessed  Razumov,  annihilated  his  energy,  and 
before  his  eyes  everything  appeared  confused  and  as  if 

70 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

evanescent.  He  dared  not  leave  the  fellow  there.  "He 
may  be  affiliated  to  the  police,"  was  the  thought  that 
passed  through  his  mind.  "Who  could  tell?"  But  ey- 
ing the  miserable  frost-nipped,  famine-struck  figure  of 
his  companion,  he  perceived  the  absurdity  of  his  sus- 
picion. 

"But  I — you  know — I  don't  belong  to  any  circle. 
I  .  .  ." 

He  dared  not  say  any  more.  Neither  dared  he  mend  his 
pace.  The  other,  raising  and  setting  down  his  lament- 
ably shod  feet  with  exact  deliberation,  protested  in  a  low 
tone  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  everybody  to  belong 
to  an  organization.  The  most  valuable  personalities  re- 
mained outside.  Some  of  the  best  work  was  done  out- 
side the  organization.  Then,  very  fast,  with  whispering, 
feverish  lips: 

"The  man  arrested  in  the  street  was  Haldin.'* 

And  accepting  Razumov's  dismayed  silence  as  natural 
enough,  he  assured  him  that  there  was  no  mistake.  That 
Government  clerk  was  on  night  duty  at  the  Secretariat. 
Hearing  a  great  noise  of  footsteps  in  the  hall,  and  aware 
that  political  prisoners  were  brought  over  sometimes  at 
night  from  the  fortress,  he  opened  the  door  of  the  room 
in  which  he  was  working  suddenly.  Before  the  gen- 
darme on  duty  could  push  him  back  and  slam  the  door 
in  his  face,  he  had  seen  a  prisoner  being  partly  carried, 
partly  dragged  along  the  hall  by  a  lot  of  policemen.  He 
was  being  used  very  brutally.  And  the  clerk  had  recog- 
nized Haldin  perfectly.  Less  than  half  an  hour  after- 
ward General  T arrived  at  the  Secretariat  to  ex- 
amine that  prisoner  personally. 

"Aren't  you  astonished?"  concluded  the  gaunt  stu- 
dent. 

"No,"  said  Razumov,  brutally,  and  at  once  regretted 
his  answer. 

"Everybody  supposed  Haldin  was  in  the  provinces — 
with  his  people.     Didn't  you?" 
6  71 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

The  student  turned  his  big,  hollow  eyes  upon  Razumov, 
who  said,  unguardedly  ° 

"His  people  are  abroad." 

He  could  have  bitten  his  tongue  out  with  vexation. 

The  student  pronounced  in  a  tone  of  profound  mean- 
ing:   "So!     You  alone  were  aware  .  .  ."  and  stopped. 

"They  have  sworn  my  ruin,"  thought  Razumov. 
"Have  you  spoken  of  this  to  any  one  else?"  he  asked, 
with  bitter  curiosity. 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"No,  only  to  you.  Our  circle  thought  that  as  Haldin 
had  been  often  heard  expressing  a  warm  appreciation  of 
your  character  ..." 

Razumov  could  not  restrain  a  gesture  of  angry  despair, 
which  the  other  must  have  misunderstood  in  some  way, 
because  he  ceased  speaking  and  turned  away  his  black, 
lackluster  eyes. 

They  moved  side  by  side  in  silence.  Then  the  gaunt 
student  began  to  whisper  again,  with  averted  gaze. 

"As  we  have  at  present  no  one  affiliated  inside  the 
fortress  so  as  to  make  it  possible  to  furnish  him  with  a 
packet  of  poison,  we  have  considered  already  some  sort 
of  retaliatory  action — to  follow  very  soon.  ..." 

Razumov,  trudging  on,  interrupted: 

"Were  you  acquainted  with  Haldin?  Did  he  know 
where  you  live?" 

"I  had  the  happiness  to  hear  him  speak  twice,"  his 
companion  answered,  in  the  feverish  whisper  contrasting 
with  the  gloomy  apathy  of  his  face  and  bearing.  "He 
did  not  know  where  I  live  ...  I  am  lodging  poorly  .  .  . 
with  an  artisan  family  ...  I  have  just  a  corner  in  a 
room.  It  is  not  very  practicable  to  see  me  there,  but  if 
you  should  need  me  for  anything  I  am  ready.  ..." 

Razumov  trembled  with  rage  and  fear.  He  was  be- 
side himself,  but  kept  his  voice  low. 

"  You  are  not  to  come  near  me.  You  are  not  to  speak 
to  me.    Never  address  a  single  word  to  me .    I  forbid  you .  * ' 

72 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Very  well,"  said  the  other,  submissively,  showing  no 
surprise  whatever  at  this  abrupt  prohibition.  "You 
don't  wish  for  secret  reasons  .  .  .  perfectly  ...  I  un- 
derstand." 

He  edged  away  at  once,  not  looking  up  even;  and 
Razumov  saw  his  gaunt,  shabby,  famine-stricken  figure 
cross  the  street  obliquely  with  lowered  head  and  that 
peculiar  exact  motion  of  the  feet. 

He  watched  him  as  one  would  watch  a  vision  out  of  a 
nightmare,  then  he  continued  on  his  way,  trying  not  to 
think.  On  his  landing  the  landlady  seemed  to  be  waiting 
for  him.  She  was  a  short,  thick,  shapeless  woman  with 
a  large  yellow  face  wrapped  up  everlastingly  in  a  black 
woolen  shawl.  When  she  saw  him  come  up  the  last 
flight  of  stairs  she  flung  both  her  arms  up  excitedly,  then 
clasped  her  hands  before  her  face. 

"Kirylo  Sidorovitch — ^little  father — ^what  have  you 
been  doing?  And  such  a  quiet  young  man,  too!  The 
police  are  just  gone  this  moment  after  searching  your 
rooms." 

Razumov  gazed  down  at  her  with  silent,  scrutinizing 
attention.  Her  puffy  yellow  countenance  was  working 
with  emotion.  She  screwed  up  her  eyes  at  him  en- 
treatingly. 

"Such  a  sensible  young  man!  Anybody  can  see  you 
are  sensible.  And  now — like  this — all  at  once.  .  .  . 
What  is  the  good  of  mixing  yourself  up  with  these 
Nihilists.?  Do  give  over — little  father.  They  are  un- 
lucky people." 

Razumov  moved  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"Or  is  it  that  some  secret  enemy  has  been  calumniat- 
ing you,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch?  The  world  is  full  of  black 
hearts  and  false  denunciations  nowadays.  There  is 
much  fear  about." 

"Have  you  heard  that  I  have  been  denounced  by 
some  one?"  asked  Razumov,  without  taking  his  eyes 
off  her  quivering  face. 

73 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

But  she  had  not  heard  anything.  She  had  tried  to 
find  out  by  asking  the  police  captain  while  his  men 
were  turning  the  room  upside  down.  The  police  cap- 
tain of  the  district  had  known  her  for  the  last  eleven 
years,  and  was  a  humane  person.  But  he  said  to  her 
on  the  landing,  looking  very  black  and  vexed: 

"My  good  woman,  do  you  ask  questions?  I  don't 
know  anything  myself.  The  order  comes  from  higher 
quarters." 

And,  indeed,  there  had  come  shortly  after  the  arrival 
of  the  policemen  of  the  district  a  very  superior  gentle- 
man in  a  fur  coat  and  a  shiny  hat,  who  sat  down  in  the 
room  and  looked  through  all  the  papers  himself.  He 
came  alone  and  went  away  by  himself,  taking  nothing 
with  him.  She  had  been  trying  to  put  things  straight 
a  little  since  they  left. 

Razumov  turned  away  brusquely  and  entered  his 
rooms. 

All  his  books  had  been  shaken  and  thrown  on  the 
floor.  His  landlady  followed  him,  and,  stooping  pain- 
fully, began  to  pick  them  up  into  her  apron.  His  papers 
and  notes,  which  were  kept  always  neatly  sorted  (they 
all  related  to  his  studies),  had  been  shuffled  up  and 
heaped  together  into  a  ragged  pile  in  the  middle  of  the 
table. 

This  disorder  affected  him  profoundly,  unreasonably. 
He  sat  down  and  stared.  He  had  a  distinct  sensation 
of  his  very  existence  being  undermined  in  some  mysteri- 
ous manner,  of  his  moral  supports  falling  away  from 
him  one  by  one.  He  even  experienced  a  slight  physical 
giddiness,  and  made  a  movement  as  if  to  reach  for  some- 
thing to  steady  himself  with. 

The  old  woman,  rising  to  her  feet  with  a  low  groan, 
shot  all  the  books  she  had  collected  in  her  apron  onto 
the  sofa  and  left  the  room  muttering  and  sighing. 

It  was  only  then  that  he  noticed  that  the  sheet  of 
paper  which  for  one  night  had  remained  stabbed  to 

74 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

the  wall  above  his  empty  bed  was  lying  on  top  of  the 
pile. 

When  he  had  taken  it  down  the  day  before,  he  had 
folded  it  in  four  absent-mindedly  before  dropping  it  on 
the  table.  And  now  he  saw  it  lying  uppermost,  spread 
out,  smoothed  out  even,  and  covering  all  the  confused 
pile  of  pages,  the  record  of  his  intellectual  life  for  the 
last  three  years.  It  had  not  been  flung  there.  It  had 
been  placed  there — smoothed  out,  too!  He  guessed 
in  that  an  intention  of  profound  meaning — or  perhaps 
some  inexplicable  mockery. 

He  sat  staring  at  the  piece  of  paper  till  his  eyes  be- 
gan to  smart.  He  did  not  attempt  to  put  his  papers 
in  order,  either  that  evening  or  the  next  day — which 
he  spent  at  home  in  a  state  of  peculiar  irresolution. 
This  irresolution  bore  upon  the  question  whether  he 
should  continue  to  live — neither  more  nor  less.  But 
its  nature  was  very  far  removed  from  the  hesitation  of 
a  man  contemplating  suicide.  The  idea  of  laying  vio- 
lent hands  upon  his  body  did  not  occur  to  Razumov. 
The  unrelated  organism  bearing  that  label,  walking, 
breathing,  wearing  these  clothes,  was  of  no  importance 
to  any  one,  unless  maybe  to  the  landlady.  The  true 
Razumov  had  his  being  in  the  willed,  in  the  determined 
future — in  that  future  menaced  by  the  lawlessness  of 
autocracy — for  autocracy  knows  no  law — and  the  law- 
lessness of  revolution.  The  feeling  that  his  moral  per- 
sonality was  at  the  mercy  of  these  lawless  forces  was  so 
strong  that  he  asked  himself  seriously  if  it  were  worth 
while  to  go  on  accomplishing  the  mental  functions  of 
that  existence  which  seemed  no  longer  his  own. 

"What  is  the  good  of  exerting  my  intelligence,  of 
pursuing  the  systematic  development  of  my  faculties, 
and  all  my  plans  of  work?"  he  asked  himself.  '*I  want 
to  guide  my  conduct  by  reasonable  convictions,  but 
what  security  have  I  against  something — some  destruc- 
tive horror — walking  in  upon  me  as  I  sit  here?  .  .  .'* 

75 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Razumov  looked  apprehensively  toward  the  door  of 
the  outer  room,  as  if  expecting  some  shape  of  evil  to 
turn  the  handle  and  appear  before  him  silently. 

"A  common  thief,"  he  said  to  himself,  "finds  more 
guarantees  in  the  law  he  is  breaking,  and  even  a  brute 
like  Ziemianitch  has  his  consolation."  Razumov  en- 
vied the  materialism  of  the  thief  and  the  passion  of  the 
incorrigible  lover.  The  consequences  of  their  actions 
were  always  clear,  and  their  lives  remained  their  own. 

But  he  slept  as  soundly  that  night  as  though  he  had 
been  consoling  himself  in  the  manner  of  Ziemianitch. 
He  dropped  off  suddenly,  lay  like  a  log,  remembered  no 
dream  on  waking.  But  it  was  as  if  his  soul  had  gone 
out  in  the  night  to  gather  the  flowers  of  wrathful  wis- 
dom. He  got  up  in  a  mood  of  grim  determination,  and 
as  if  with  a  new  knowledge  of  his  own  nature.  He 
looked  mockingly  on  the  heap  of  papers  on  his  table, 
and  left  his  room  to  attend  the  lectures,  muttering  to 
himself,  "We  shall  see." 

He  was  in  no  humor  to  talk  to  anybody,  or  hear  him- 
self questioned  as  to  his  absence  from  lectures  the  da^/ 
before.  But  it  was  difficult  to  repulse  rudely  a  very 
good  comrade  with  a  smooth,  pink  face  and  fair  hair, 
bearing  the  nickname  among  his  fellow  -  students  of 
"Madcap  Kostia."  He  was  the  idolized  only  son  of  a 
very"  wealthy  and  illiterate  Governm_ent  contractor,  and 
attended  the  lectures  only  during  the  periodical  fits  of 
contrition  following  upon  tearful  paternal  remon- 
strances. Noisily  blundering  like  a  retriever  puppy, 
his  elated  voice  and  great  gestures  filled  the  bare  acad- 
emy corridors  with  the  joy  of  thoughtless  animal  life, 
provoking  indulgent  smiles  at  a  great  distance.  His 
usual  discourses  treated  of  trotting-horses,  wine-parties 
in  expensive  restaurants,  and  the  merits  of  persons  of 
easy  virtue,  with  a  disarming  artlessness  of  outlook. 
He  pounced  upon  Razumov  about  midday,  somewhat 
less  uproariously  than  his  habit  was,  and  led  him  aside. 

76 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Just  a  moment,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch.  A  few  words 
here  in  this  quiet  comer." 

He  felt  Razumov's  reluctance,  and  insinuated  his 
hand  under  his  arm  caressingly. 

"No — pray  do.  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you  about 
any  of  my  silly  scrapes.  What  are  my  scrapes?  Abso- 
lutely nothing.  Mere  childishness.  The  other  night  I 
flung  a  fellow  out  of  a  certain  place  where  I  was  having 
a  fairly  good  time.  A  tyrannical  little  beast  of  a  quill- 
driver  from  the  Treasury  Department.  .  .  .  He  was  bully- 
ing the  people  of  the  house.  I  rebuked  him.  *You 
are  not  behaving  humanely  to  God's  creatures  that  are 
a  jolly  sight  more  estimable  than  yourself,'  I  said.  I 
can't  bear  to  see  any  tyranny,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch. 
Upon  my  word  I  can't.  He  didn't  take  it  in  good  part 
at  all.  'Who's  that  impudent  puppy?'  he  begins  to 
shout.  I  was  in  excellent  form,  as  it  happened,  and  he 
went  through  the  closed  window  very  suddenly.  He 
flew  quite  a  long  way  into  the  yard.  I  raged  like — 
like  a  —  minotaur.  The  women  clung  to  me  and 
screamed,  the  fiddlers  got  under  the  table.  .  .  .  Such  fun! 
My  dad  had  to  put  his  hand  pretty  deep  into  his  pocket, 
I  can  tell  you." 

He  chuckled. 

**My  dad  is  a  very  useful  man.  Jolly  good  thing  it  is 
for  me,  too.     I  do  get  into  unholy  scrapes." 

His  elation  fell.  That  was  just  it.  What  was  his 
life?  Insignificant;  no  good  to  any  one;  a  mere  fes- 
tivity. It  would  end  some  fine  day  in  his  getting  his 
skull  split  with  a  champagne  bottle  in  a  drunken  brawl. 
At  such  times,  too,  when  men  were  sacrificing  them- 
selves to  ideas.  But  he  could  never  get  any  ideas  into 
his  head.  His  head  wasn't  worth  anything  better  than 
to  be  split  by  a  champagne  bottle. 

Razumov,  protesting  that  he  had  no  time,  made  an 
attempt  to  get  away.  The  other's  tone  changed  to 
confidential  earnestness  : 

77 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"For  God's  sake,  Kirylo,  my  dear  soul,  let  me  make 
some  sort  of  sacrifice.  It  would  not  be  a  sacrifice  really. 
I  have  my  rich  dad  behind  me.  There's  positively  no 
getting  to  the  bottom  of  his  pocket." 

And  rejecting  indignantly  Razumov's  suggestion  that 
this  was  drunken  raving,  he  offered  to  lend  him  some 
money  to  escape  abroad  with.  He  could  always  get 
money  from  his  dad.  He  had  only  to  say  that  he  had 
lost  it  at  cards  or  something  of  that  sort,  and  at  the 
same  time  promise  solemnly  not  to  miss  a  single 
lecture  for  three  months  on  end.  That  would  fetch  the 
old  man;  and  he,  Kostia,  was  quite  equal  to  the  sacri- 
fice. Though  he  really  did  not  see  what  was  the  good 
for  him  to  attend  the  lectures.  It  was  perfectly  hope- 
less. 

"Won't  you  let  me  be  of  some  use?"  he  pleaded  to 
the  silent  Razumov,  who,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground 
and  utterly  unable  to  penetrate  the  real  drift  of  the 
other's  intention,  felt  a  strange  reluctance  to  clear  up 
the  point. 

''What  makes  you  think  I  want  to  go  abroad?"  he 
asked,  at  last,  very  quietly. 

Kostia  lowered  his  voice. 

"  You  had  the  police  in  your  rooms  yesterday.  There 
are  three  or  four  of  us  who  have  heard  of  that.  Never 
mind  how  we  know.  It  is  sufficient  that  we  do.  So 
we  have  been  consulting  together." 

"Ah!  You  got  to  know  that  so  soon?"  muttered 
Razumov,  negligently. 

"Yes.  We  did.  And  it  struck  us  that  a  man  like 
you  .  .  ." 

"What  sort  of  man  do  you  take  me  to  be?"  Razumov 
interrupted  him. 

"  A  man  of  ideas — and  a  man  of  action,  too.  But  you 
are  very  deep,  Kirylo.  There's  no  getting  to  the  bottom 
of  your  mind.  Not  for  fellows  like  me.  But  we  all 
agreed  that  you  must  be  preserved  for  our  country. 

78 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Of  that  we  have  no  doubt  whatever — I  mean  all  of  us 
who  have  heard  Haldin  speak  of  you  on  certain  occa- 
sions. A  man  doesn't  get  the  police  ransacking  his 
rooms  without  there  being  some  devilry  hanging  over 
his  head.  .  .  .  And  so  if  you  think  that  it  would  be  better 
for  you  to  bolt  at  once  ..." 

Razumov  tore  himself  away  and  walked  down  the 
corridor,  leaving  the  other  motionless  with  his  mouth 
open.  But  almost  at  once  he  returned  and  stood  before 
the  amazed  Kostia,  who  shut  his  mouth  slowly.  Razu- 
mov looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes  before  saying,  with 
marked  deliberation  and  separating  his  words: 

' '  I  thank — you — very — much . ' ' 

He  went  away  again  rapidly.  Kostia,  recovering 
from  his  surprise  at  these  manoeuvers,  ran  up  behind 
him  pressingly. 

"No!  Wait!  Listen!  I  really  mean  it.  It  would 
be  like  giving  your  compassion  to  a  starving  fellow. 
Do  you  hear,  Kirylo?  And  any  disguise  you  may 
think  of,  that  too,  I  could  procure  from  a  costumier,  a 
Jew  I  know.  Let  a  fool  be  made  serviceable  according 
to  his  folly.  Perhaps  also  a  false  beard  or  something 
of  that  kind  may  be  needed." 

Razumov  turned  at  bay. 

"There  are  no  false  beards  needed  in  this  business, 
Kostia — you  good-hearted  lunatic,  you.  What  do  you 
know  of  my  ideas?     My  ideas  may  be  poison  to  you." 

The  other  began  to  shake  his  head  in  energetic  protest. 

"What  have  you  got  to  do  with  ideas?  Some  of 
them  would  make  an  end  of  your  dad's  money-bags. 
Leave  off  meddling  with  what  you  don't  understand. 
Go  back  to  your  trotting  -  horses  and  your  girls,  and 
then  you'll  be  sure  at  least  of  doing  no  harm  to  any- 
body, and  hardly  any  to  yourself." 

The  enthusiastic  youth  was  overcome  by  this  disdain. 

"You're  sending  me  back  to  my  pig's  trough,  Kirylo. 
That  settles  it.     I  am  an  unlucky  beast — and  I  shall  die 

79 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

like  a  beast,  too.     But  mind — it's  your  contempt  that 
has  done  for  me." 

Razumov  went  off  with  long  strides.  That  this  sim- 
ple and  grossly  festive  soul  should  have  fallen,  too, 
under  the  revolutionary  curse  affected  him  as  an  omi- 
nous symptom  of  the  time.  He  reproached  himself  for 
feeling  troubled.  Personally  he  ought  to  have  felt 
reassured.  There  was  an  obvious  advantage  in  this  con- 
spiracy of  mistaken  judgment  taking  him  for  what  he 
was  not.     But  was  it  not  strange  .f* 

Again  he  experienced  that  sensation  of  his  conduct 
being  taken  out  of  his  hands  by  Haldin's  revolutionary 
tyranny.  His  solitary  and  laborious  existence  had  been 
destroyed — the  only  thing  he  could  call  his  own  on  this 
earth.  By  what  right?  he  asked  himself,  furiously. 
In  what  name? 

What  infuriated  him  most  was  to  feel  that  the  "think- 
ers" of  the  University  were  evidently  connecting  him 
with  Haldin — as  a  sort  of  confidant  in  the  background 
apparently.  A  mysterious  connection!  Ha,  ha!  .  .  . 
He  had  been  made  a  personage  without  knowing  any- 
thing about  it.  How  that  wretch  Haldin  must  have 
talked  about  him!  Yet  it  was  likely  that  Haldin  had 
said  very  little.  The  fellow's  casual  utterances  were 
caught  up  and  treasured  and  pondered  over  by  all  these 
imbeciles.  And  was  not  all  secret  revolutionary  action 
based  upon  folly,  self-deception,  and  lies? 

"Impossible  to  think  of  anything  else,"  muttered 
Razumov  to  himself.  "I'll  become  an  idiot  if  this  goes 
on.  The  scoundrels  and  the  fools  are  murdering  my 
intelligence." 

He  lost  all  hope  of  saving  his  future,  which  depended 
on  the  free  use  of  his  intelligence. 

He  reached  the  doorway  of  his  house  in  a  state  of 
mental  discouragement,  which  enabled  him  to  receive 
with  apparent  indifference  an  official-looking  envelope 
from  the  dirty  hand  of  the  dvornik. 

80 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"A  gendarme  brought  it,"  said  the  man.  "He  asked 
if  you  were  at  home.  I  told  him,  *  No,  he's  not  at  home.' 
So  he  left  it.  'Give  it  into  his  own  hands,*  says  he. 
Now  you've  got  it — eh?" 

He  went  back  to  his  sweeping,  and  Razumov  climbed 
his  stairs,  envelope  in  hand.  Once  in  his  room  he  did 
not  hasten  to  open  it.  Of  course  this  official  missive 
was  from  the  superior  direction  of  the  police.  A  sus- 
pect!    A  suspect! 

He  stared  in  dreary  astonishment  at  the  absurdity  of 
his  position.  He  thought  with  a  sort  of  dry  unemo- 
tional melancholy;  three  years  of  good  work  gone,  the 
course  of  forty  more  perhaps  jeopardized — turned  from 
hope  to  terror,  because  events  started  by  human  folly 
link  themselves  into  a  sequence  which  no  sagacity  can 
foresee  and  no  courage  can  break  through.  Fatality 
enters  your  rooms  while  your  landlady's  back  is  turned; 
you  come  home  and  find  it  in  possession  bearing  a  man's 
name,  clothed  in  flesh — wearing  a  brown  cloth  coat  and 
long  boots — lounging  against  the  stove.  It  asks  you: 
**  Is  the  outer  door  closed  ?" — and  you  don't  know  enough 
to  take  it  by  the  throat  and  fling  it  down-stairs.  You 
don't  know.  You  welcome  the  crazy  fate.  "  Sit  down," 
you  say.  And  it  is  all  over.  You  cannot  shake  it  off 
any  more.  It  will  cling  to  you  forever.  Neither  halter 
nor  bullet  can  give  you  back  the  freedom  of  your  life 
and  the  sanity  of  your  thought.  ...  It  was  enough  to 
dash  one's  head  against  a  wall. 

Razumov  looked  slowly  all  round  the  walls,  as  if  to 
select  a  spot  to  dash  his  head  against.  Then  he  opened 
the  letter.  It  directed  the  student,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch 
Razumov,  to  present  himself  without  delay  at  the  Gen- 
eral Secretariat. 

Razumov  had  a  vision  of  General  T 's  goggle  eyes 

waiting  for  him  —  the  embodied  power  of  autocracy, 
grotesque  and  terrible.  He  embodied  the  whole  power 
of  autocracy,  because  he  was  its  guardian.     He  was  the 

8i 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

incarnate  suspicion,  the  incarnate  anger,  the  incarnate 
ruthlessness  of  a  political  and  social  regime  on  its  de- 
fence. He  loathed  rebellion  by  instinct.  And  Razumov 
reflected  that  the  man  was  simply  unable  to  understand 
a  reasonable  adherence  to  the  doctrine  of  absolutism. 

**What  can  he  want  with  me  precisely — I  wonder?" 
he  asked  himself. 

As  if  that  mental  question  had  evoked  the  familiar 
phantom,  Haldin  stood  suddenly  before  him  in  the  room 
with  an  extraordinary  completeness  of  detail.  Though 
the  short  winter  day  had  passed  already  into  the  sinister 
twilight  of  a  land  buried  in  snow,  Razumov  saw  plainly 
the  narrow  leather  strap  round  the  Tcherkess  coat.  The 
illusion  of  that  hateful  presence  was  so  perfect  that  he 
half  expected  it  to  ask,  "Is  the  outer  door  closed?" 
He  looked  at  it  with  hatred  and  contempt.  Souls  do 
not  take  a  shape  of  clothing.  Moreover,  Haldin  could 
not  be  dead  yet.  Razumov  stepped  forward  menac- 
ingly; the  vision  vanished — and  turning  short  on  his 
heel  he  walked  out  of  his  room  with  infinite  disdain. 

But  after  going  down  the  first  flight  of  stairs  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  perhaps  the  superior  authorities 
of  police  meant  to  confront  him  with  Haldin  in  the 
flesh.  This  thought  struck  him  like  a  bullet — and  had 
he  not  clung  with  both  hands  to  the  banister  he  would 
have  rolled  down  to  the  next  landing  most  likely.  His 
legs  were  of  no  use  for  a  considerable  time.  .  .  .  But  why? 
For  what  conceivable  reason?     To  what  end? 

There  could  be  no  rational  answer  to  these  questions, 
but  Razumov  remembered  the  promise  made  by  the 

General  to  Prince  K .     His  action  was  to  remain 

unknown. 

He  got  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  lowering  him- 
self, as  it  were,  from  step  to  step  by  the  banister. 
Under  the  gate  he  regained  much  of  his  firmness  of 
thought  and  limb.  He  went  out  into  the  street  without 
staggering    visibly.     Every    moment    he    felt    steadier 

82 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

mentally.     And    yet    he    was    saying   to    himself   that 

General  T was  perfectly  capable  of  shutting  him 

up  in  the  fortress  for  an  indefinite  time.  His  tempera- 
ment fitted  his  remorseless  task,  and  his  omnipotence 
made  him  inaccessible  to  reasonable  argument. 

But  when  Razumov  arrived  at  the  Secretariat  he  dis- 
covered that  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  General 

T .     It  is  evident  from  Mr.  Razumov's  diary  that 

this  dreaded  personality  was  to  remain  in  the  back- 
ground. A  civilian  of  superior  rank  received  him  in  a 
private  room  after  a  period  of  waiting  in  outer  offices 
where  a  lot  of  scribbling  went  on  at  many  tables  in  a 
heated  and  stuffy  atmosphere. 

The  clerk  in  uniform,  who  conducted  him,  said,  in  the 
corridor : 

"You  are  going  before  Gregory  Matvieitch  Mikulin." 

There  was  nothing  formidable  about  the  man  bearing 
that  name.  His  mild,  expectant  glance  was  turned  on 
the  door  already  when  Razumov  entered.  At  once,  with 
the  penholder  he  was  holding  in  his  hand,  he  pointed  to 
a  deep  sofa  between  two  windows.  He  followed  Razu- 
mov with  his  eyes  while  that  last  crossed  the  room  and 
sat  down.  The  mild  gaze  rested  on  him,  not  curious,  not 
inquisitive — certainly  not  suspicious — almost  without 
expression.  In  its  passionless  persistence  there  was 
something  resembling  sympathy. 

Razumov,  who  had  prepared  his  will  and  his  intelli- 
gence to  encounter  General  T himself,  was  pro- 
foundly troubled.  All  the  moral  bracing-up  against  the 
possible  excesses  of  power  and  passion  went  for  nothing 
before  this  sallow  man  who  wore  a  full  undipped  beard. 
It  was  fair,  thin,  and  very  fine.  The  light  fell  in  coppery 
gleams  on  the  protuberances  of  a  high,  rugged  forehead. 
And  the  aspect  of  the  broad,  soft  physiognomy  was  so 
homely  and  rustic  that  the  careful  middle  parting  of 
the  hair  seemed  a  pretentious  affectation. 

The  diary  of  Mr.  Razumov  testifies  to  some  irritation 

83 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

on  his  part.  I  may  remark  here  that  the  diary  proper, 
consisting  of  the  more  or  less  daily  entries,  seems  to  have 
been  begun  on  that  very  evening  after  Mr.  Razumov  had 
returned  home. 

Mr.  Razumov,  then,  was  irritated.  His  strung-up 
individuality  had  gone  to  pieces  within  him  very  sud- 
denly. 

"I  must  be  very  prudent  with  him,"  he  warned  him- 
self in  the  silence  during  which  they  sat  gazing  at  each 
other.  It  lasted  some  little  time  and  was  characterized 
(for  silences  have  their  character)  by  a  sort  of  sadness 
imparted  to  it,  perhaps,  by  the  mild  and  thoughtful 
manner  of  the  bearded  official.  Razumov  learned  later 
that  he  was  the  chief  of  a  department  in  the  General 
Secretariat,  with  a  rank  in  the  civil  service  equivalent 
to  that  of  a  colonel  in  the  army. 

Razumov's  mistrust  became  acute.  The  main  point 
was  not  to  be  drawn  into  saying  too  much.  He  had  been 
called  there  for  some  reason.  What  reason?  To  be 
given  to  understand  that  he  was  a  suspect — and  also,  no 
doubt,  to  be  pumped.  As  to  what  precisely?  There 
was  nothing.  Or,  perhaps,  Haldin  had  been  telling 
lies.  .  .  .  Every  alarming  uncertainty  beset  Razumov. 
He  could  bear  the  silence  no  longer,  and,  cursing  himself 
for  his  weakness,  spoke  first,  though  he  had  promised 
himself  not  to  do  so  on  any  account. 

"I  haven't  lost  a  moment's  time,"  he  began  in  a 
hoarse,  provoking  tone;  and  then  the  faculty  of  speech 
seemed  to  leave  him  and  enter  the  body  of  Councilor 
Mikulin,  who  chimed  in  approvingly  : 

"Very  proper.  Very  proper.  Though  as  a  matter  of 
fact  .  .  ." 

But  the  spell  was  broken  and  Razumov  interrupted 
him  boldly  under  a  sudden  conviction  that  this  was  the 
safest  attitude  to  take.  With  a  great  flow  of  words  he, 
complained  of  being  totally  misunderstood.  Even  as 
he  talked,  with  a  perception  of  his  own  audacity,  he 

84 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

thought  that  the  word  "misunderstood"  was  better  than 
the  word  "mistrusted,"  and  he  repeated  it  again  with  in- 
sistence. Suddenly  he  ceased,  being  seized  with  fright 
before  the  attentive  immobility  of  the  official.  "What 
am  I  talking  about?"  he  thought,  eying  him  with  a 
vague  gaze.  Mistrusted,  not  misunderstood,  was  the 
right  symbol  for  these  people.  Misunderstood  was  the 
other  kind  of  curse.  Both  had  been  brought  on  his 
head  by  that  fellow  Haldin.  And  his  head  ached  ter- 
ribly. He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow — an  involun- 
tary gesture  of  suffering  which  he  was  too  careless  to 
restrain.  At  that  moment  Razumov  beheld  his  own 
brain  suffering  on  the  rack — a  long,  pale  figure  drawn 
asunder  horizontally  with  terrific  force  in  the  darkness  of 
a  vault  and  whose  face  he  failed  to  see.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  dreamed  for  an  infinitesimal  fraction  of  time  of 
some  dark  print  of  the  Inquisition.  .  .  . 

It  is  not  to  be  seriously  supposed  that  Razumov  had 
actually  dozed  off  and  had  dreamed,  in  the  presence  of 
Councilor  Mikulin,  of  an  old  print  of  the  Inquisition. 
He  was,  indeed,  extremely  exhausted,  and  he  records 
a  remarkably  dreamlike  impression  of  anguish  at  the 
circumstance  that  there  was  no  one  whatever  near  the 
pale  and  extended  figure.  The  solitude  of  the  racked 
victim  was  particularly  horrible  to  behold.  The  mys- 
terious impossibility  to  see  the  face,  he  also  notes,  in- 
spired a  sort  of  terror.  All  these  characteristics  of  an 
ugly  dream  were  present.  Yet  he  is  certain  that  he  never 
lost  the  consciousness  of  himself  on  the  sofa,  leaning  for- 
ward with  his  hands  between  his  knees  and  turning  his 
cap  round  and  round  in  his  fingers.  But  everything 
vanished  at  the  voice  of  Councilor  Mikulin.  Razumov 
felt  profoundly  grateful  for  the  even  simplicity  of  its 
tone. 

"Yes.  I  have  listened  with  interest.  I  comprehend 
in  a  measure  your  .  .  .  But,  indeed,  you  are  mistaken 
in  what  you  ..."     Councilor  Mikulin  uttered  a  series 

85 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

of  broken  sentences.  Instead  of  finishing  them  he 
glanced  down  his  beard.  It  was  a  dehberate  curtail- 
ment, which,  somehow,  made  the  phrases  more  impres- 
sive. But  he  could  talk  fluently  enough,  as  became 
apparent  when,  changing  his  tone  to  persuasiveness,  he 
went  on.  "By  listening  to  you  as  I  did,  I  think  I  have 
proved  that  I  do  not  regard  our  intercourse  as  strictly 
official.  In  fact,  I  don't  want  it  to  have  that  character 
at  all.  .  .  .  Oh  yes!  I  admit  that  the  request  for  your 
presence  here  had  an  official  form.  But  I  put  it  to  you 
whether  it  was  a  form  which  would  have  been  used  to 
secure  the  attendance  of  a  .  .  ." 

"Suspect,"  exclaimed  Razumov,  looking  straight  into 
the  official's  eyes.  They  were  big,  with  heavy  eyelids, 
and  met  his  boldness  with  a  dim,  steadfast  gaze.  "A 
suspect."  The  open  repetition  of  that  word  which  had 
been  haunting  all  his  waking  hours  gave  Razumov  a 
strange  sort  of  satisfaction.  Councilor  Mikulin  shook  his 
head  slightly.  "Surely  you  do  know  that  I've  had  my 
rooms  searched  by  the  police?" 

"  I  was  about  to  say  a  misunderstood  person  when  you 
interrupted  me,"  insinuated,  quietly,  Councilor  Mikulin. 

Razumov  smiled  without  bitterness.  The  renewed 
sense  of  his  intellectual  superiority  sustained  him  in  the 
hour  of  danger.     He  said,  a  little  disdainfully: 

"  I  know  I  am  but  a  reed.  But  I  beg  you  to  allow  me 
the  superiority  of  the  thinking  reed  over  the  unthinking 
forces  that  are  about  to  crush  him  out  of  existence. 
Practical  thinking,  in  the  last  instance,  is  but  criticism. 
I  may,  perhaps,  be  allowed  to  express  my  wonder  at  this 
action  of  the  police  being  delayed  for  two  full  days,  dur- 
ing which,  of  course,  I  could  have  annihilated  everything 
compromising  by  burning  it,  let  us  say,  and  getting  rid 
of  the  very  ashes,  for  that  matter." 

"You  are  angry,"  remarked  the  official,  with  an  un- 
utterable simplicity  of  tone  and  manner.  "Is  that 
reasonable?" 

86 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Razumov  felt  himself  coloring  with  annoyance. 

**  I  am  reasonable.  I  am  even — permit  me  to  say — a 
thinker,  though  to  be  sure  this  name  nowadays  seems 
to  be  the  monopoly  of  hawkers  of  revolutionary  wares, 
the  slaves  of  some  French  or  German  thought — devil 
knows  what  foreign  notions.  But  I  am  not  an  intel- 
lectual mongrel.  I  think  like  a  Russian.  I  think 
faithfully — and  I  take  the  liberty  to  call  myself  a 
thinker.     It  is  not  a  forbidden  word,  as  far  as  I  know." 

**No.  Why  should  it  be  a  forbidden  word?"  Coun- 
cilor Mikulin  turned  in  his  seat  with  crossed  legs  and, 
resting  his  elbow  on  the  table,  propped  his  head  on  the 
knuckles  of  a  half-closed  hand.  Razumov  noticed  a 
thick  forefinger  clasped  by  a  massive  gold  band  set  with 
a  blood-red  stone — a  signet  ring  that,  looking  as  if  it 
could  weigh  half  a  pound,  was  an  appropriate  ornament 
for  that  ponderous  man  with  the  accurate  middle  part- 
ing of  glossy  hair  above  a  rugged  Socratic  forehead. 

"Could  it  be  a  wig?"  Razumov  detected  himself 
wondering  with  an  unexpected  detachment.  His  self- 
confidence  was  much  shaken.  He  resolved  to  chatter  no 
more.  Reserve!  Reserve!  All  he  had  to  do  was  to 
keep  the  Ziemianitch  episode  secret  with  absolute  de- 
termination, when  the  questions  came.  Keep  Ziemia- 
nitch strictly  out  of  all  the  answers. 

Councilor  Mikulin  looked  at  him  dimly.  Razumov's 
self-confidence  abandoned  him  completely.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  keep  Ziemianitch  out.  Every  question 
would  lead  to  that,  because,  of  course,  there  was  nothing 
else.  He  made  an  effort  to  brace  himself  up.  It  was  a 
failure.  But  Councilor  Mikulin  was  surprisingly  de- 
tached, too. 

'*  Why  should  it  be  forbidden  ?  "  he  repeated.  **  I,  too, 
consider  myself  a  thinking  man,  I  assure  you.  The 
principal  condition  is  to  think  correctly.  I  admit  it  is 
difficult  sometimes  at  first  for  a  young  man  abandoned 
to  himself — with  his  generous  impulses  undisciplined,  so 
7  87 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

to  speak — at  the  mercy  of  every  wild  wind  that  blows., 
Religious  belief  >  of  course,  is  a  great  ..." 

Councilor  Mikulin  glanced  down  his  beard,  and 
Razumov,  whose  tension  was  relaxed  by  that  unex- 
pected and  discursive  turn,  murmured,  with  gloomy 
discontent : 

"That  man,  Haldin,  believed  in  God." 

"Ah!  You  are  aware,"  breathed  out  Councilor 
Mikulin,  making  the  point  softly,  as  if  with  discretion, 
but  making  it,  nevertheless,  plainly  enough,  as  if  he,  too, 
were  put  off  his  guard  by  Razumov's  remark.  That  last 
preserved  an  impassive,  moody  countenance,  though  he 
reproached  himself  bitterly  for  a  pernicious  fool,  to  have 
given  thus  an  utterly  false  impression  of  intimacy.  He 
kept  his  eyes  on  the  floor.  "I  must  positively  hold  my 
tongue  unless  I  am  obliged  to  speak,"  he  admonished 
himself.  And  at  once  against  his  will  the  question 
"Hadn't  I  better  tell  him  everything?"  presented  itself 
with  such  force  that  he  had  to  bite  his  lower  lip.  Coun- 
cilor Mikulin  could  not,  however,  have  nourished  any 
hope  of  confession.     He  went  on: 

"  You  tell  me  more  than  his  judges  were  able  to  get  out 
of  him.  He  was  judged  by  a  commission  of  three.  He 
would  tell  them  absolutely  nothing.  I  have  the  report 
of  the  interrogatories  here  by  me.  After  every  question 
there  stands,  'Refuses  to  answer — refuses  to  answer.' 
It's  like  that,  page  after  page.  You  see,  I  have  been  in- 
trusted with  some  further  investigations  around  and 
about  this  affair.  He  has  left  me  nothing  to  begin  my 
investigations  on.  A  hardened  miscreant.  And  so,  you 
say,  he  believed  in  .  .  ." 

Again  Councilor  Mikulin  glanced  down  his  beard  with  a 
faint  grimace;  but  he  did  not  pause  for  long.  Remark- 
ing, with  a  shade  of  scorn,  that  blasphemers,  also,  had 
that  sort  of  belief,  he  concluded  by  supposing  that  Mr. 
Razumov  had  conversed  frequently  with  Haldin  on  the 
subject. 

88 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"No,"  said  Razumov,  loudly,  without  looking  up. 
"He  talked  and  I  listened.  That  is  not  a  conversa- 
tion." 

"Listening  is  a  great  art,"  observed  Mikulin,  paren- 
thetically. 

"And  getting  people  to  talk  is  another,"  mumbled 
Razumov.  , 

"Well,  no — that  is  not  very  difficult,"  Mikulin  said,  in- 
nocently, "except,  of  course,  in  special  cases.  For  in- 
stance, this  Haldin.  Nothing  could  induce  him  to  talk. 
He  was  brought  four  times  before  the  delegated  judges. 
Four  secret  interrogatories — and  even  during  the  last, 
when  your  personality  was  put  forward  .  .  ." 

"My  personality  put  forward,"  repeated  Razumov, 
raising  his  head  brusquely.     "  I  don't  understand." 

Councilor  Mikulin  turned  squarely  to  the  table,  and, 
taking  up  some  sheets  of  gray  foolscap,  dropped  them 
one  after  another,  retaining  only  the  last  in  his  hand. 
He  held  it  before  his  eyes  while  speaking. 

"  It  was — you  see — judged  necessary.  In  a  case  of  that 
gravity  no  means  of  action  upon  the  culprit  should  be 
neglected.     You  understand  that  yourself,  I  am  certain." 

Razumov  stared  with  enormous  wide  eyes  at  the  side 
view  of  Councilor  Mikulin,  who  now  was  not  looking  at 
him  at  all. 

"  So  it  was  decided  (I  was  consulted  by  General  T ) 

that  a  certain  question  should  be  put  to  the  accused. 

But  in  deference  to  the  earnest  wishes  of  Prince  K 

your  name  has  been  kept  out  of  the  documents  and  even 
from   the   very   knowledge   of  the   judges   themselves. 

Prince  K recognized  the  propriety,  the  necessity  of 

what  we  proposed  to  do,  but  he  was  concerned  for  your 
safety.  Things  do  leak  out — that  we  can't  deny.  One 
cannot  always  answer  for  the  discretion  of  inferior 
officials.  There  was,  of  course,  the  secretary  of  the 
special  tribunal  and  one  or  two  gendarmes  in  the  room. 
Moreover,  as  I  have  said,  in  deference  to  Prince  K , 

89 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

even  the  judges  themselves  were  to  be  left  in  ignorance. 
The   question,    ready   framed,    was   sent   to   them   by 

General  T (I  wrote  it  out  with  my  own  hand) ,  with 

instructions  to  put  it  to  the  prisoner  the  very  last  of 
all.     Here  it  is." 

Councilor  Mikulin  threw  back  his  head  into  proper 
focus  and  went  on  reading,  monotonously :  "  *  Question. — 
Has  the  man,  well  known  to  you,  in  whose  rooms  you 
remained  for  several  hours  on  Monday  and  on  whose  in- 
formation you  have  been  arrested — has  he  had  any  pre- 
vious knowledge  of  your  intention  to  commit  a  political 
murder?  .  .  .  Prisoner  refuses  to  reply. 

"  *  Question  repeated.  Prisoner  preserves  the  same 
stubborn  silence. 

**  *  The  venerable  Chaplain  of  the  Fortress  being  then 
admitted  and  exhorting  the  prisoner  to  repentance,  en- 
treating him  also  to  atone  for  his  crime  by  an  unreserved 
and  full  confession  which  should  help  to  liberate  from 
the  sin  of  rebellion  against  the  Divine  laws  and  the  sacred 
Majesty  of  the  Ruler,  our  Christ-loving  land,  the  pris- 
oner opens  his  lips  for  the  first  time  during  this  morning's 
audience,  and  in  a  loud,  clear  voice  rejects  the  venerable 
Chaplain's  ministrations. 

**  *  At  eleven  o'clock  the  Court  pronounces  in  summary 
form  the  death  sentence. 

**  *  The  execution  is  fixed  for  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, subject  to  further  instructions  from  superior 
authorities.'  " 

Councilor  Mikulin  dropped  the  page  of  foolscap, 
glanced  down  his  beard,  and,  turning  to  Razumov,  added, 
in  an  easy,  explanatory  tone : 

"We  saw  no  object  in  delaying  the  execution.  The 
order  to  carry  out  the  sentence  was  sent  by  telegraph  at 
noon.  I  wrote  out  the  telegram  myself.  He  was  hanged 
at  four  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

The  definite  information  of  Haldin's  death  gave 
]Razumov  that  feeling  of  general  lassitude  which  follows 

90 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

a  great  exertion  or  a  great  excitement.  He  kept  vefy 
still  on  the  sofa,  but  a  murmur  escaped  him. 

"He  had  a  belief  in  a  future  existence." 

Councilor  Mikulin  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly,  and 
Razumov  got  up  with  an  effort.  There  was  nothing  now 
to  stay  for  in  that  room.  Haldin  had  been  hanged  at 
four  o'clock.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  He  had, 
it  seemed,  entered  upon  his  future  existence,  long  boots, 
Astrakhan  fur  cap,  and  all,  down  to  the  very  leather  strap 
round  his  waist.  A  flickering,  vanishing  sort  of  ex- 
istence. It  was  not  his  soul,  it  was  his  mere  phantom 
that  he  left  behind  on  this  earth,  thought  Razumov, 
smiling  caustically  to  himself  while  he  crossed  the  room, 
utterly  forgetful  of  where  he  was  and  of  Councilor 
Mikulin's  existence.  This  last  could  have  set  a  lot  of 
bells  ringing  all  over  the  building  without  leaving  his 
chair.  He  let  Razumov  come  up  quite  to  the  door  before 
he  spoke. 

"Come,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  what  are  you  doing?" 

Razumov  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  him  in  silence. 
He  was  not  in  the  least  disconcerted.  Councilor 
Mikulin's  arms  were  stretched  out  on  the  table  before 
him,  and  his  body  leaned  forward  a  little  with  an  effort 
of  his  dim  gaze. 

"Was  I  actually  going  to  clear  out  like  this  ?"  Razumov 
wondered  at  himself  with  an  impassive  countenance. 
And  he  was  aware  of  this  impassiveness  concealing  a 
lucid  astonishment. 

"Evidently  I  was  going  out  if  he  had  not  spoken,"  he 
thought .  * '  What  would  he  have  done  then  ?  I  must  end 
this  affair  one  way  or  another.  I  must  make  him  show 
his  hand." 

For  a  moment  longer  he  reflected  behind  the  mask,  as 
it  were,  then  let  go  the  door-handle  and  came  back  to 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  think,"  he  said,  explosively, 
but  not  raising  his  voice.     "You  think  that  you  are 

91 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

dealing  with  a  secret  accomplice  of  that  unhappy  man. 
No,  I  do  not  know  that  he  was  unhappy.  He  did  not 
tell  me.  He  was  a  wretch,  from  my  point  of  view,  be- 
cause to  keep  alive  a  false  idea  is  a  greater  crime  than 
to  kill  a  man.  I  suppose  you  will  not  deny  that?  I 
hated  him!  Visionaries  work  everlasting  evil  on  earth. 
Their  Utopias  inspire  in  the  mass  of  mediocre  minds  a 
disgust  of  reality  and  a  contempt  for  the  secular  logic  of 
human  development." 

Razumov  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  stared.  "What 
a  tirade!"  he  thought.  The  silence  and  immobility  of 
Councilor  Mikulin  impressed  him.  The  bearded  bureau- 
crat sat  at  his  post,  mysteriously  self-possessed,  like  an 
idol  with  dim,  unreadable  eyes.  Razumov's  voice 
changed .  involuntarily. 

"If  you  were  to  ask  me  where  is  the  necessity  of  my 
hate  for  such  as  Hal  din,  I  would  answer  you — there  is 
nothing  sentimental  in  it.  I  did  not  hate  him  because 
he  had  committed  the  crime  of  murder.  Abhorrence  is 
not  hate.  I  hated  him  simply  because  I  am  sane.  It 
is  in  that  character  that  he  outraged  me.     His  death  ..." 

Razumov  felt  his  voice  growing  thick  in  his  throat. 
The  dimness  of  Councilor  Mikulin's  eyes  seemed  to 
spread  all  over  his  face  and  made  it  indistinct  to  Razu- 
mov's  sight.     He  tried  to  disregard  these  phenomena. 

"Indeed,"  he  pursued,  pronouncing  each  word  care- 
fully, "what  is  his  death  to  me?  If  he  were  lying  here 
on  the  floor  I  could  walk  over  his  breast.  .  .  .  The  fellow 
is  a  mere  phantom.  ..." 

Razumov's  voice  died  out  very  much  against  his 
will.  Mikulin  behind  the  table  did  not  allow  himself 
the  slightest  movement.  The  silence  lasted  for  some 
little  time  before  Razumov  could  go  on  again. 

"He  went  about  talking  of  me.  .  .  .  Those  intellec- 
tual fellows  sit  in  each  other's  rooms  and  get  drunk  on 
foreign  ideas  in  the  same  way  young  Guard's  officers  treat 
each   other  with  foreign  wines.      Merest    debauchery. 

92 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

.  .  .  Upon  my  word" — Razumov,  enraged  by  a  sudden 
recollection  of  Ziemianitch,  lowered  his  voice  forcibly — 
"upon  my  word  we  Russians  are  a  drunken  lot.  Intoxi- 
cation of  some  sort  we  must  have :  to  get  ourselves  wild 
with  sorrow  or  maudlin  with  resignation ;  to  lie  inert  like 
a  log  or  set  fire  to  the  house.  What  is  a  sober  man  to  do, 
I  should  like  to  know?  To  cut  oneself  entirely  from 
one's  kind  is  impossible.  To  live  in  a  desert  one  must  be 
a  saint.  But  if  a  drunken  man  runs  out  of  the  grog- 
shop, falls  on  your  neck,  and  kisses  you  on  both  cheeks 
because  something  about  your  appearance  has  taken 
his  fancy,  what  then — kindly  tell  me  ?  You  may  break, 
perhaps,  a  cudgel  on  his  back  and  yet  not  succeed  in  beat- 
ing him  off.  .  .  ." 

Councilor  Mikulin  raised  his  hand  and  passed  it  down 
his  face  deliberately. 

"That's  ...  of  course,**  he  said,  in  an  undertone.     ' 

The  quiet  gravity  of  that  gesture  made  Razumov 
pause.  It  was  so  unexpected,  too.  "What  did  it  mean? 
It  had  an  alarming  aloofness.  Razumov  remembered 
his  intention  of  making  him  show  his  hand. 

"I  have  said  all  this  to  Prince  K ,"  he  began,  with 

assumed  indifference,  but  lost  it  on  seeing  Councilor 
Mikulin's  slow  nod  of  assent.  "You  know  it?  You've 
heard.  .  .  .  Then  why  should  I  be  called  here  to  be  told 
of  Haldin*s  execution?  Did  you  want  to  confront  me 
with  his  silence  now  that  the  man  is  dead?  What  is 
his  silence  to  me  ?  This  is  incomprehensible.  You  want 
in  some  way  to  shake  my  moral  balance.'* 

"No.  Not  that,"  murmured  Councilor  Mikulin,  just 
audibly.  "The  service  you  have  rendered  is  ap- 
preciated ..." 

"Is  it?"  interrupted  Razumov,  ironically. 

"...  And  your  position,  too."  Councilor  Mikulin 
did  not  raise  his  voice.  "  But  only  think!  You  fall  into 
Prince  K 's  study  as  if  from  the  sky  with  your  start- 
ling information.  .  .  .  You  are  studying  yet,  Mr.  Raz- 

93 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

umov,  but  we  are  serving  already,  don't  forget  that. 
.  .  .  And  naturally  some  curiosity  was  bound  to  .  .  ." 

Councilor  Mikulin  looked  down  his  beard.  Razumov's 
lips  trembled. 

"  An  occurrence  of  that  sort  marks  a  man,"  the  homely 
murmur  went  on.     ''I  admit  I  was  curious  to  see  you. 

General    T thought  it  would  be  useful,  too.   .  .  . 

Don't  think  I  am  incapable  of  understanding  your  senti- 
ments.    When  I  was  young  like  you  I  studied  ..." 

**Yes.  You  wished  to  see  me,"  said  Razumov,  in  a 
tone  of  profound  distaste.  "Naturally  you  have  the 
right — I  mean' the  power.  It  all  amounts  to  the  same 
thing.  But  it  is  perfectly  useless,  if  you  were  to  look  at 
me  and  listen  to  me  for  a  year.  I  begin  to  think  there 
is  something  about  me  which  people  don't  seem  able 
to  make  out.  It's  unfortunate.  I  imagine,  however, 
that  Prince  K understands.     He  seemed  to." 

Councilor  Mikulin  moved  slightly  and  spoke : 

"Prince  K— —  is  aware  of  everything  that  is  being 
done,  and  I  don't  mind  informing  you  that  he  approved 
my  intention  of  becoming  personally  acquainted  with 
you." 

Razumov  concealed  an  immense  disappointment 
under  the  accents  of  railing  surprise. 

"So  he  is  curious,  too!  .  .  .  Well — after  all,  Prince 
K knows  me  very  little.  It  is  really  very  unfor- 
tunate for  me,  but — it  is  not  exactly  my  fault." 

Councilor  Mikulin  raised  a  hasty  deprecatory  hand  and 
inclined  his  head  slightly  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Razumov — is  it  necessary  to  take  it  in  that 
way?     Everybody,  I  am  sure,  can  .  .  ." 

He  glanced  rapidly  down  his  beard,  and  when  he 
looked  up  again  there  was  for  a  moment  an  interested 
expression  in  his  misty  gaze.  Razumov  discouraged  it 
with  a  cold,  repellent  smile. 

"No.  That's  of  no  importance,  to  be  sure — except 
that  in  respect  of  all  this  curiosity  being  aroused  by  a 

94 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

very  simple  matter.  .  .  .  What  is  to  be  done  with  it? 
It  is  unappeasable.  I  mean  to  say  there  is  nothing  to 
appease  it  with.  I  happen  to  have  been  bom  a  Russian 
with  patriotic  instincts — whether  inherited  or  not,  I  am 
not  in  a  position  to  say." 

Razumov  spoke  consciously,  with  elaborate  steadi- 
ness: 

"Yes,  patriotic  instincts  developed  by  a  faculty  of 
independent  thinking — of  detached  thinking.  In  that 
respect  I  am  more  free  than  any  social  democratic 
revolution  could  make  me.  It  is  more  than  probable 
that  I  don't  think  exactly  as  you  are  thinking.  Indeed, 
how  could  it  be  ?  You  would  think  most  likely  at  this 
moment  that  I  am  elaborately  lying  to  cover  up  the 
track  of  my  repentance." 

Razumov  stopped.  His  heart  had  grown  too  big  for 
his  breast.     Councilor  Mikulin  did  not  flinch. 

"  Why  so  ?"  he  said,  simply.  '*  I  assisted  personally  at 
the  search  of  your  rooms.  I  looked  through  all  the 
papers  myself.  I  have  been  greatly  impressed  by  a  sort 
of  political  confession  of  faith.  A  very  remarkable  doc- 
ument.    Now,  may  I  ask  for  what  purpose  .  .  ." 

"To  deceive  the  police,  naturally,"  said  Razumov, 
savagely.  .  .  .  "What  is  all  this  mockery?  Of  course 
you  can  send  me  straight  from  this  room  to  Siberia. 
That  would  be  intelligible.  To  what  is  intelligible  I  can 
submit.  But  I  protest  against  this  comedy  of  persecu- 
tion. The  whole  affair  is  becoming  too  comical  alto- 
gether for  my  taste.  A  comedy  of  errors,  phantoms, 
and  suspicions.     It's  positively  indecent.  .  .  .", 

Councilor  Mikulin  turned  an  attentive  ear. 

"Did  you  say  phantoms?"  he  murmured. 

"  I  could  walk  over  dozens  of  them."  Razumov,  with 
an  impatient  wave  of  his  hand,  went  on  headlong:  " But, 
really,  I  must  claim  the  right  to  be  done  once  for  all  with 
that  man.  And  in  order  to  accomplish  this  I  shall  take 
the  liberty  .  .  ." 

95 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Razumov,  on  his  side  of  the  table,  boVed  slightly  to 
the  seated  bureaucrat. 

".  .  .  To  retire — simply  to  retire,"  he  finished,  with 
great  resolution. 

I^  walked  to  the  door,  thinking,  **  Now  he  must  show 
his  hand.  He  must  ring  and  have  me  arrested  before  I 
am  out  of  the  building,  or  he  must  let  me  go.  And 
either  way  .  .  ." 

An  unhurried  voice  said: 

"Kirylo  Sidorovitch." 

Razumov,  at  the  door,  turned  his  head. 

"To  retire,"  he  repeated. 

"Where  to?"  asked  Councilor  Mikulin,  softly. 


PART    SECOND 


IN  the  conduct  of  an  invented  story  there  are,  no 
doubt,  certain  proprieties  to  be  observed  for  the 
sake  of  clearness  and  effect.  A  man  of  imagination, 
however  inexperienced  in  the  art  of  narrative,  has  his 
instinct  to  guide  him  in  the  choice  of  his  words  and  in 
the  development  of  the  action.  A  grain  of  talent  ex- 
cuses many  mistakes.  But  this  is  not  a  work  of  imagina- 
tion; I  have  no  talent;  my  excuse  for  this  undertaking 
lies  not  in  its  art,  but  in  its  artlessness.  Aware  of  my 
limitations  and  strong  in  the  sincerity  of  my  purpose,  I 
would  not  try  (were  I  able)  to  invent  anything.  I  push 
my  scruples  so  far  that  I  would  not  even  invent  a 
transition. 

Dropping,  then,  Mr.  Razumov's  record  at  the  point 
where  Councilor  Mikulin's  question  ** Where  to?"  comes 
with  its  air  of  an  insoluble  problem,  I  shall  simply  say 
that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  these  ladies  about  six 
months  before  that  time.  By  ** these  ladies"  I  mean, 
of  course,  the  mother  and  the  sister  of  the  unfortunate 
Haldin. 

By  what  arguments  he  had  induced  his  mother  to  sell 
their  little  property  and  go  abroad  for  an  indefinite  time, 
I  cannot  tell  precisely.  I  have  an  idea  that  Mrs.  Haldin, 
at  her  son's  wish,  would  have  set  fire  to  her  house  and 
emigrated  to  the  moon  without  any  sign  of  surprise 
or  apprehension;  and  that  Miss  Haldin — Nathalie,  ca- 
ressingly Natalka — would  have  given  her  assent  to  the 
scheme. 

Their  proud  devotion  to  that  young  man  became  clear 

99 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

to  me  in  a  very  short  time.  Following  his  directions, 
they  went  straight  to  Switzerland — to  Zurich — where 
they  remained  the  best  part  of  a  year.  From  Zurich, 
which  they  did  not  like,  they  came  to  Geneva.  A  friend 
of  mine  in  Lausanne,  a  lecturer  in  history  at  the  Univer- 
sity (he  had  married  a  Russian  lady,  a  distant  connection 
of  Mrs.  Haldin's),  wrote  to  me  suggesting  I  should  call 
on  these  ladies.  It  was  a  very  kindly  meant  business 
suggestion.  Miss  Haldin  wishes  to  go  through  a  course  of 
reading  the  best  English  authors  with  a  competent  teacher. 

Mrs.  Haldin  received  me  very  kindly.  Her  "bad 
French,  of  which  she  was  smilingly  conscious,  did  away 
with  the  formality  of  the  first  interview.  She  was  a 
tall  woman  in  a  black  silk  dress.  A  wide  brow,  regular 
features,  and  delicately  cut  lips  testified  to  her  past 
beauty.  She  sat  upright  in  an  easy-chair,  and  in  a  rather 
weak,  gentle  voice  told  me  that  her  Natalka  simply 
thirsted  after  knowledge.  Her  thin  hands  were  lying 
on  her  lap,  her  facial  immobility  had  in  it  something 
monachal.  "In  Russia,"  she  went  on,  **all  knowledge 
was  tainted  with  falsehood.  Not  chemistry  and  all 
that,"  she  explained.  The  government  corrupted  the 
teaching  for  its  own  purposes.  Both  her  children  felt 
that.  Her  Natalka  had  obtained  a  diploma  of  a  superior 
school  for  women,  and  her  son  was  a  student  at  the  St. 
Petersburg  University.  He  had  a  brilliant  intellect,  a 
most  noble,  unselfish  nature,  and  he  was  the  oracle  of 
his  comrades.  Early  next  year,  she  hoped,  he  would 
join  them  and  they  would  then  go  to  Italy  together. 
In  any  other  country  but  their  own  she  would  have 
been  certain  of  a  great  future  for  a  man  with  the  extra- 
ordinary abilities  and  the  lofty  character  of  her  son — 
but  in  Russia.  .  .  . 

The  young  lady,  sitting  by  the  window,  turned  her 
head  and  said: 

"  Come,  mother.  Even  with  us  things  change  with 
years.'! 

100 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Her  voice  was  deep,  almost  harsh,  and  yet  caressing  in 
its  harshness.  She  had  a  dark  complexion,  with  red  lips 
and  a  full  figure.  She  gave  the  impression  of  strong 
vitality.     The  old  lady  sighed. 

"  You  are  both  young — you  two.  It  is  easy  for  you  to 
hope.  But  I,  too,  am  not  hopeless.  Indeed,  how  could 
I  be  with  a  son  like  this  ?  " 

I  addressed  Miss  Haldin,  asking  her  what  authors  she 
wished  to  read.  She  directed  upon  me  her  gray  eyes, 
shaded  by  black  eyelashes,  and  I  became  aware,  not- 
withstanding my  years,  how  attractive  physically  her 
personality  could  be  to  a  man  capable  of  appreciating  in 
a  woman  something  else  than  the  mere  grace  of  feminin- 
ity. Her  glance  was  as  direct  and  trustful  as  that  of  a 
young  man  yet  unspoiled  by  the  world's  wise  lessons. 
And  it  was  intrepid,  but  in  this  intrepidity  there  was 
nothing  aggressive.  A  naive,  yet  thoughtful,  assurance 
is  a  better  definition.  She  had  reflected  already  (in 
Russia  the  young  begin  to  think  early),  but  she  had 
never  known  deception  as  yet,  because,  obviously,  she 
had  never  yet  fallen  under  the  sway  of  passion.  She 
was — to  look  at  her  was  enough — very  capable  of  being 
roused  by  the  idea  or  simply  by  a  person.  At  least,  so  I 
judged  with  I  believe  an  unbiased  mind;  for  clearly  my 
person  could  not  be  the  person — and  as  to  my  ideas !  .  .  . 

But  we  became  excellent  friends  in  the  course  of  our 
reading.  It  was  very  pleasant.  Without  fear  of  pro- 
voking a  smile,  I  shall  confess  that  I  became  very  much 
attached  to  that  young  girl.  At  the  end  of  four  months 
I  told  her  that  now  she  could  very  well  go  on  reading 
English  by  herself.  It  was  time  for  the  teacher  to  de- 
part.    My  pupil  looked  unpleasantly  surprised. 

Mrs.  Haldin,  with  her  immobility  of  feature  and 
kindly  expression  of  the  eyes,  uttered  from  her  arm- 
chair in  her  uncertain  French:  ''Mais  Vami  reviendra.'' 
And  so  it  was  settled.  I  returned — not  four  times  a 
week  as  before,  but  pretty  frequently.     In  the  autumn 

lOI 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

we  made  some  short  excursions  together  in  company 
with  other  Russians.  My  friendship  with  these  ladies 
had  given  me  a  standing  in  the  Russian  colony  which 
otherwise  I  could  not  have  had. 

The  day  I  saw  in  the  papers  the  news  of  Mr.  de  P 's 

assassination — it  was  a  Sunday — I  met  the  ladies  in  the 
street  and  walked  with  them  for  some  distance.  Mrs. 
Haldin  wore  a  heavy  gray  cloak,  I  remember,  over  her 
black  silk  dress,  and  her  fine  eyes  met  mine  with  a  very 
quiet  expression. 

**We  have  been  to  the  late  service,"  she  said.  "Na- 
talka  came  with  me.  Her  girl  friends,  the  students  here, 
of  course,  don't  .  .  .  With  us  in  Russia  the  Church  is 
so  identified  with  oppression  that  it  seems  almost  neces- 
sary when  one  wishes  to  be  free  in  this  life  to  give  up 
all  hope  of  a  future  existence.  But  I  cannot  give  up 
praying  for  my  son." 

She  added,  with  a  sort  of  stony  grimness,  coloring 
slightly,  and  in  French:  ''Ce  n'est  pent  etre  qWune  habi- 
tude.'"    ("It  may  be  only  habit.") 

Miss  Haldin  was  carrying  the  prayer-book.  She  did 
not  glance  at  her  mother. 

"  You  and  Victor  are  both  profound  believers,"  she  said. 

I  communicated  to  them  the  news  from  their  coun- 
try which  I  had  just  read  in  a  cafe.  For  a  whole  minute 
we  walked  together  fairly  briskly  in  silence.  Then  Mrs. 
Haldin  murmured: 

"There  will  be  more  trouble,  more  persecutions  for 
this.  They  may  be  even  closing  the  University.  There 
is  neither  peace  nor  rest  in  Russia  for  one  but  in  the 
grave." 

"Yes.  The  way  is  hard,"  came  from  the  daughter, 
looking  straight  before  her  at  the  Chain  of  Jura  covered 
with  snow,  like  a  white  wall  closing  the  end  of  the 
street.     "But  concord  is  not  so  very  far  off." 

"That  is  what  my  children  think,"  observed  Mrs. 
Haldin  to  me. 

I02 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

I  did  not  conceal  my  feeling  that  these  were  strange 
times  to  talk  of  concord.  Nathalie  Haldin  surprised  me 
by  saying  as  if  she  had  thought  very  much  on  the 
subject,  that  the  Occidentals  did  not  understand  the 
situation.     She  was  very  calm  and  youthfully  superior. 

"You  think  it  is  a  class  conflict,  or  a  conflict  of  in- 
terests, as  social  contests  are  with  you  in  Europe.  But 
it  is  not  that  at  all.     It  is  something  quite  different." 

**  It  is  quite  possible  that  Ldon't  understand,"  I  admitted. 

That  propensity  of  lifting  every  problem  from  the 
plane  of  the  understandable  by  means  of  some  sort  of 
mystic  expression  is  very  Russian.  I  knew  her  well 
enough  to  have  discovered  her  scorn  for  all  the  practical 
forms  of  political  liberty  known  to  the  Western  world. 
I  suppose  one  must  be  a  Russian  to  understand  Russian 
simplicity,  a  terrible,  corroding  simplicity  in  which 
mystic  phrases  clothe  a  naive  and  hopeless  cynicism. 
I  think  sometimes  that  the  psychological  secret  of  the 
profound  difference  of  that  people  consists  in  this  that 
they  detest  life,  the  irremediable  life  of  the  earth  as  it 
is,  whereas  we  Westerners  cherish  it  with  perhaps  an 
equal  exaggeration  of  its  sentimental  value.  But  this  is 
a  digression  indeed. ...     > 

I  helped  these  ladies  into  the  tram-car,  and  they  asked 
me  to  call  in  the  afternoon.  At  least  Mrs.  Haldin  asked 
me  as  she  climbed  up,  and  her  Natalka  smiled  down  at 
the  dense  Westerner  indulgently  from  the  rear  platform 
of  the  moving  car.  The  light  of  the  clear  wintry  fore- 
noon w^as  softened  in  her  gray  eyes. 

Mr.  Razumov's  record,  like  the  open  book  of  fate,  re- 
vives for  me  the  memory  of  that  day  as  something 
startlingly  pitiless  in  its  freedom  from  all  forebodings. 
Victor  Haldin  was  still  with  the  living,  but  with  the  liv- 
ing whose  only  contact  with  life  is  the  expectation  of 
death.  He  must  have  been  already  referring  to  the  last 
of  his  earthly  affections,  the  hours  of  that  obstinate 
silence  which  for  him  was  to  be  prolonged  into  eternity. 
8  103 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

That  afternoon  the  ladies  entertained  a  good  many  of 
their  compatriots — more  than  was  usual  for  them  to  re- 
ceive at  one  time;  and  the  drawing-room  on  the  ground 
floor  of  a  large  house  on  the  Boulevard  des  Philosophes 
was  very  much  crowded. 

I  outstayed  everybody,  and,  when  I  rose,  Miss  Haldin 
stood  up,  too.  I  took  her  hand  and  was  moved  to  revert 
to  that  morning's  conversation  in  the  street. 

"  Admitting  that  we  Occidentals  do  not  understand  the 
character  of  your  people  .  .  ."I  began. 

It  was  as  if  she  had  been  prepared  for  me  by  some 
mysterious  foreknowledge.     She  checked  me  gently: 

** Their  impulses — their" — she  sought  the  proper  ex- 
pression and  found  it,  but  in  French — **  their  mouve- 
ments  d'dme." 

Her  voice  was  not  much  above  a  whisper. 

"Very  well,"  I  said.  "But  still  we  are  looking  at  a 
conflict.  You  say  it  is  not  a  conflict  of  classes  and  not 
a  conflict  of  interests.  Suppose  I  admitted  that.  Are 
antagonistic  ideas  then  to  be  reconciled  more  easily — can 
they  be  cemented  with  blood  and  violence  into  that  con- 
cord which  you  proclaim  to  be  so  near?" 

She  looked  at  me  searchingly  with  her  clear  gray  eyes, 
without  answering  my  reasonable  question — my  obvious, 
my  unanswerable  question. 

"It  is  inconceivable,"  I  added,  with  something  like 
annoyance. 

"Everything  is  inconceivable,"  she  said.  "The 
whole  world  is  inconceivable  to  the  strict  logic  of  ideas. 
And  yet  the  world  exists  to  our  senses,  and  we  exist  in  it. 
There  must  be  a  necessity  superior  to  our  conceptions. 
It  is  a  very  miserable  and  a  very  false  thing  to  belong 
to  the  majority.  We  Russians  shall  find  some  better 
form  of  national  freedom  than  an  artificial  conflict  of 
parties — which  is  wrong,  because  it  is  a  conflict,  and 
contemptible  because  it  is  artificial.  It  is  left  for  us 
Russians  to  discover  a  better  way.". 

104 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Mrs.  Haldin  had  been  looking  out  of  the  window.  She 
turned  upon  me  the  almost  lifeless  beauty  of  her  face  and 
the  living  benign  glance  of  her  big,  dark  eyes. 

"That's  what  my  children  think,"  she  declared. 

"I  suppose" — I  addressed  Miss  Haldin — "that  you 
will  be  shocked  if  I  tell  you  that  I  haven't  understood — 
I  won't  say  a  single  word;  I've  understood  all  the  words. 
.  .  .  But  what  can  be  this  era  of  disembodied  concord 
you  are  looking  forward  to  ?  Life  is  a  thing  of  form.  It 
has  its  plastic  shape  and  a  definite  intellectual  aspect. 
The  most  idealistic  conceptions  of  love  and  forbearance 
must  be  clothed  in  flesh,  as  it  were,  before  they  can  be 
made  understandable." 

I  took  my  leave  of  Mrs.  Haldin,  whose  beautiful  lips 
never  stirred.  She  smiled  with  her  eyes  only.  Nathalie 
Haldin  went  with  me  as  far  as  the  door,  very  amiable. 

"Mother  imagines  that  I  am  the  slavish  echo  of  my 
brother  Victor.  It  is  not  so.  He  understands  me  better 
than  I  can  understand  him.  When  he  joins  us  and  you 
come  to  know  him  you  will  see  what  an  exceptional  soul 
it  is."  She  paused.  "He  is  not  a  strong  man  in  the 
conventional  sense,  you  know,"  she  added,  "but  his 
character  is  without  a  flaw." 

"I  believe  that  it  will  not  be  difficult  for  me  to  make 
friends  with  your  brother  Victor." 

"Don't  expect  to  understand  him  quite,"  she  said,  a 
little  maliciously.  "He  is  not  at  all — at  all — Western 
at  bottom." 

And  on  this  unnecessary  warning  I  left  the  room  with 
another  bow  in  the  doorway  to  Mrs.  Haldin  in  her  arm- 
chair by  the  window.  The  shadow  of  autocracy,  all  un- 
perceived  by  me,  had  already  fallen  upon  the  Boulevard 
des  Philosophes,  in  the  free  independent  and  democratic 
city  of  Geneva,  where  there  is  a  quarter  called  La  Petite 
Russie.  Whenever  two  Russians  come  together,  the 
shadow  of  autocracy  is  with  them,  tinging  their  thoughts, 
their  views,  their  most  intimate  feelings,  their  private 

105 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

life,  the  public  utterances — haunting  the  secret  of  their 
silences. 

What  struck  me  next  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  so  was 
the  silence  of  these  ladies.  I  used  to  meet  them  walking 
in  the  public  garden  near  the  University.  They  greeted 
me  with  their  usual  friendliness,  but  I  could  not  help 
noticing  their  taciturnity.     By  that  time  it  was  generally 

known  that  the  assassin  of  Mr.  de  P had  been  caught, 

judged,  and  executed.  So  much  had  been  declared 
officially  to  the  news  agencies.  But  for  the  world  at  large 
he  remained  anonymous.  The  official  secrecy  had  with- 
held his  name  from  the  public.  I  really  cannot  imagine 
for  what  reason. 

One  day  I  saw  Miss  Haldin  walking  alone  in  the  main 
alley  of  the  bastions  under  the  naked  trees. 

"Mother  is  not  very  well,"  she  explained. 

As  Mrs.  Haldin  had,  it  seemed,  never  had  a  day's  illness 
in  her  life,  this  indisposition  was  disquieting.  It  was 
nothing  definite,  too. 

"I  think  she  is  fretting  because  we  have  not  heard 
from  my  brother  for  rather  a  long  time." 

"No  news — good  news,"  I  said,  cheerfully,  and  we 
began  to  walk  slowly  side  by  side. 

"Not  in  Russia,"  she  breathed  out  so  low  that  I  only 
just  caught  the  words.  I  looked  at  her  with  more 
attention. 

"You,  too,  are  anxious?  " 

She  admitted  after  a  moment  of  hesitation  that  she 
was. 

"  It  is  really  such  a  long  time  since  we  heard.  ..." 

And  before  I  could  offer  the  usual  banal  suggestions 
she  confided  in  me. 

"Oh!  But  it  is  much  worse  than  that.  I  wrote  to  a 
family  we  know  in  Petersburg.  They  had  not  seen  him 
for  more  than  a  month.  They  thought  he  was  already 
with  us.  They  were  even  offended  a  little  that  he  should 
have  left   Petersburg  without  calling  on  them.     The 

io6 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

husband  of  the  lady  went  at  once  to  his  lodgings.     Victor 
had  left  there  and  they  did  not  know  his  address." 

I  remember  her  catching  her  breath  rather  pitifully. 
Her  brother  had  not  been  seen  at  lectures  for  a  very  long 
time,  either.  He  only  turned  up  now  and  then  at  the 
University  gate  to  ask  the  porter  for  his  letters.  And 
the  gentleman  friend  was  told  that  the  student  Haldin 
did  not  come  to  claim  the  last  two  letters  for  him.  But 
the  police  came  to  inquire  if  the  student  Haldin  ever  re- 
ceived any  correspondence  at  the  University,  and  took 
them  away. 

**My  two  last  letters,"  she  said. 

We  faced  each  other.  A  few  snowflakes  fluttered 
under  the  naked  boughs.     The  sky  was  dark. 

"What  do  you  think  could  have  happened?"  I  asked. 

Her  shoulders  moved  slightly. 

"One  can  never  tell — in  Russia." 

I  saw  then  the  shadow  of  autocracy  lying  upon  Rus- 
sian lives  in  their  submission  or  their  revolt.  I  saw  it 
touch  her  handsome  open  face  nestled  in  a  fur  collar  and 
darken  her  clear  eyes  that  shone  upon  me  brilliantly  gray 
in  the  murky  light  of  a  beclouded  inclement  afternoon. 

"Let  us  move  on,"  she  said.  "It  is  cold  standing — 
to-day." 

She  shuddered  a  little  and  stamped  her  little  feet. 
We  moved  briskly  to  the  end  of  the  alley  and  back  to  the 
great  gates  of  the  garden. 

"Have  you  told  your  mother?"  I  ventured  to  ask. 

"No.  Not  yet.  I  came  out  to  walk  off  the  impres- 
sion of  this  letter." 

I  heard  a  rustle  of  paper  somewhere.  It  came  from 
her  muff.     She  had  the  letter  with  her  in  there. 

"What  is  it  that  you  are  afraid  of?"  I  asked. 

To  us  Europeans  of  the  West  all  ideas  of  political  plots 
and  conspiracies  seem  childish,  crude  inventions  for  the 
theater  or  a  novel.  I  did  not  like  to  be  more  definite  in 
my  inquiry. 

107 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

*'For  us — for  my  mother  especially,  what  I  am  afraid 
of  is  incertitude.  People  do  disappear.  Yes,  they  do 
disappear.  I  leave  you  to  imagine  what  it  is — the 
cruelty  of  the  dumb  weeks — months — years!  This 
friend  of  ours  has  abandoned  his  inquiries  when  he  heard 
of  the  police  getting  hold  of  the  letters.  I  suppose  he 
was  afraid  of  compromising  himself.  He  has  a  wife  and 
children — and  why  should  he,  after  all  .  .  .  Moreover, 
he  is  without  influential  connections  and  not  rich. 
What  could  he  do  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  am  afraid  of  silence — for 
my  poor  mother.  She  won't  be  able  to  bear  it.  For 
my  brother  I  am  afraid  of" — she  became  almost  in- 
distinct— '*of  anything." 

We  were  now  near  the  gate  opposite  the  theater.  She 
raised  her  voice. 

"But  lost  people  do  turn  up  even  in  Russia.  Do  you 
know  what  my  last  hope  is  ?  Perhaps  the  next  thing  we 
know,  we  shall  see  him  walking  into  our  rooms." 

I  raised  my  hat  and  she  passed  out  of  the  gardens, 
graceful  and  strong,  after  a  slight  movement  of  the  head 
to  me,  her  hands  in  the  muff,  crumpling  the  cruel 
Petersburg  letter. 

On  returning  home  I  opened  the  newspaper  I  receive 
from  London,  and  glancing  down  the  correspondence 
from  Russia — not  the  telegrams,  but  the  correspondence 
— the  first  thing  that  caught  my  eye  was  the  name  of 
Haldin.  Mr.  de  P 's  death  was  no  longer  an  actual- 
ity, but  the  enterprising  correspondent  was  proud  of 
having  ferreted  out  some  unofficial  information  about 
that  fact  of  modern  history.  He  had  got  hold  of  Haldin's 
name  and  had  picked  up  the  story  of  the  midnight  arrest 
in  the  street.  But  the  sensation  from  a  journalistic 
point  of  view  was  already  well  in  the  past.  He  did 
not  allot  to  it  more  than  twenty  lines  out  of  a  full 
column.  It  was  quite  enough  to  give  me  a  sleepless 
night.  I  perceived  that  it  would  have  been  a  sort  of 
treason  to  let  Miss  Haldin  come  without  preparation 

io8 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

upon  that  journalistic  discovery,  which  would  infallibly 
be  reproduced  on  the  morrow  by  French  and  Swiss  news- 
papers. I  had  a  very  bad  time  of  it  till  the  moriiing, 
wakeful  with  nervous  worry  and  nightmarish  with  the 
feeling  of  being  mixed  up  with  something  theatrical  and 
morbidly  affected.  The  incongruity  of  such  a  complica- 
tion in  those  two  women's  lives  was  sensible  to  me  all 
night  in  the  form  of  absolute  anguish.  It  seerned  due 
to  their  refined  simplicity  that  it  should  remain  con- 
cealed from  them  forever.  At  an  unconscionably  early 
hour,  at  the  door  of  their  apartment,  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
about  to  commit  an  act  of  vandalism.  .  .  . 

The  middle-aged  servant  woman  led  me  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  there  was  a  duster  on  a  chair  and  a 
broom  leaning  against  the  center  table.  The  motes 
danced  in  the  sunshine;  I  regretted  I  had  not  written  a 
letter  instead  of  coming  myself,  and  was  thankful  for 
the  brightness  of  the  day.  Miss  Haldin,  in  a  plain  black 
dress,  came  lightly  out  of  her  mother's  room  with  a  fixed, 
uncertain  smile  on  her  lips. 

I  pulled  the  paper  out  of  my  pocket.  I  did  not 
imagine  that  a  number  of  the  Standard  could  have  the 
effect  of  Medusa's  head.  Her  face  went  stony  in  a 
moment — her  eyes — her  limbs.  The  most  terrible  thing 
was  that,  being  stony,  she  remained  alive.  One  was  con- 
scious of  her  palpitating  heart.  I  hope  she  forgave  me 
the  delay  of  my  clumsy  circumlocution.  It  was  not  very 
prolonged ;  she  could  not  have  kept  so  still  from  head  to 
foot  for  more  than  a  second  or  two,  and  then  I  heard  her 
draw  a  breath.  As  if  the  shock  had  paralyzed  her  moral 
resistance,  and  affected  the  firmness  of  her  muscles,  the 
contours  of  her  face  seemed  to  have  given  way.  She 
was  frightfully  altered.  She  looked  aged — ruined.  But 
only  for  a  moment.     She  said,  with  decision: 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  my  mother  at  once." 

''Would  that  be  safe  in  her  state?"  I  objected. 

"What  can  be  worse  than  the  state  she  has  been  in 
109 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

for  the  last  month  ?  We  understand  this  in  another  way. 
The  crime  is  not  at  his  door.  Don't  imagine  I  am  de- 
fending him  before  you." 

She  went  to  the  bedroom  door,  then  came  back  to  ask 
me  in  a  low  murmur  not  to  go  away  till  she  returned. 
For  twenty  interminable  minutes  not  a  sound  reached 
me.  At  last  Miss  Haldin  came  out  and  walked  across 
the  room  with  her  quick,  light  step.  When  she  reached 
the  arm-chair  she  dropped  into  it  heavily,  as  if  com- 
pletely exhausted. 

Mrs.  Haldin,  she  told  me,  had  not  shed  a  tear.  She 
was  sitting  up  in  bed,  and  her  immobility,  her  silence, 
were  very  alarming.  At  last  she  lay  down  gently  and 
had  motioned  her  daughter  away. 

"She  will  call  me  in  presently,"  added  Miss  Haldin. 
"I  left  a  bell  near  the  bed." 

I  confess  that  my  very  real  sympathy  had  no  stand- 
point. The  Western  readers  for  whom  this  story  is 
written  will  understand  what  I  mean.  It  was,  if  I  may 
say  so,  the  want  of  experience.  Death  is  a  remorseless 
spoliator.  The  anguish  of  irreparable  loss  is  familiar  to 
us  all.  There  is  no  life  so  lonely  as  to  be  safe  against  that 
experience.  But  the  grief  I  had  brought  to  these  two 
ladies  had  gruesome  associations.  It  had  the  associa- 
tions of  bombs  and  gallows — a  lurid,  Russian  coloring 
which  made  the  complexion  of  my  sympathy  uncertain. 

I  was  grateful  to  Miss  Haldin  for  not  embarrassing  me 
by  an  outward  display  of  deep  feeling.  I  admired  her 
for  that  wonderful  command  over  herself,  even  while  I 
was  a  little  frightened  at  it.  It  was  the  stillness  of  a 
great  tension.  What  if  it  should  suddenly  snap  ?  Even 
the  door  of  Mrs.  Haldin's  room,  with  the  old  mother  alone 
in  there,  had  a  rather  awful  aspect. 

Nathalie  Haldin  murmured,  sadly: 

"I  suppose  you  are  wondering  what  my  feelings  are?" 

Essentially  that  was  true.  It  was  that  very  wonder 
which  unsettled  my  sympathy  of  a  dense  Occidental. 

no 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

I  could  get  hold  of  nothing  but  of  some  commonplace 
phrases,  those  futile  phrases  that  give  the  measure  of 
our  impotence  before  each  other's  trials.  I  mumbled 
something  to  the  effect  that  for  the  young  life  held  its 
hopes  and  compensations.  It  held  duties  too — but  of 
that  I  was  certain  it  was  not  necessary  to  remind 
her. 

She  had  a  handkerchief  in  her  hands,  and  pulled  at  it 
nervously. 

"I  am  not  likely  to  forget  my  mother,"  she  said. 
"We  used  to  be  three.  Now  we  are  two — two  women. 
She's  not  so  very  old.  She  may  live  quite  a  long  time 
yet.  What  have  we  to  look  for  in  the  future  ?  For  what 
hope  and  what  consolation?" 

"You  must  take  a  wider  view,"  I  said,  resolutely, 
thinking  that  with  this  exceptional  creature  this  was 
the  right  note  to  strike.  She  looked  at  me  steadily  for  a 
moment,  and  then  the  tears  she  had  been  keeping  down 
flowed  unrestrained.  She  jumped  up  and  stood  in  the 
window  with  her  back  to  me. 

I  slipped  away  without  attempting  even  to  approach 
her.  Next  day  I  was  told  at  the  door  that  Mrs.  Haldin 
was  better.  The  middle-aged  servant  remarked  that  a 
lot  of  people — Russians — had  called  that  day,  but  Miss 
Haldin  had  not  seen  anybody.  A  fortnight  later,  when 
making  my  daily  call,  I  was  asked  in  and  found  Mrs. 
Haldin  sitting  in  her  usual  place  by  the  window. 

■At  first  one  would  have  thought  that  nothing  was 
changed.  I  saw  across  the  room  the  familiar  profile,  a 
little  sharper  in  outline  and  overspread  by  a  uniform 
pallor,  as  might  have  been  expected  in  an  invalid.  But 
no  disease  could  have  accounted  for  the  change  in  her 
black  eyes,  smiling  no  longer  with  gentle  irony.  She 
raised  them  as  she  gave  me  her  hand.  I  observed  the 
three- weeks' -old  number  of  the  Standard  folded,  with  the 
correspondence  from  Russia  uppermost,  lying  on  a  little 
table  by  the  side  of  the  arm-chair.     Mrs.  Hal  din's  voice 

III 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

was  startlingly  weak  and  colorless.     Her  first  words  to 
me  framed  a  question. 

"Has  there  been  anything  more  in  your  newspapers?" 

I  released  her  long,  emaciated  hand,  shook  my  head 
negatively,  and  sat  down. 

"The  English  press  is  wonderful.  Nothing  can  be 
kept  secret  from  it,  and  all  the  world  must  hear.  Only 
our  Russian  news  is  not  always  easy  to  understand. 
Not  always  easy.  .  .  .  But  English  mothers  do  not  look 
for  news  like  that.  ..." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  newspaper  and  took  it  away 
again.     I  said: 

"We,  too,  have  had  tragic  times  in  our  history." 

"A  long  time  ago.     A  very  long  time  ago." 

"Yes." 

"There  are  nations  that  have  made  their  bargain  with 
fate,"  said  Miss  Haldin,  who  had  approached  us.  "We 
need  not  envy  them." 

"Why  this  scorn?"  I  asked,  gently.  "It  may  be  that 
our  bargain  was  not  a  very  lofty  one.  But  the  terms  men 
and  nations  obtain  from  fate  are  hallowed  by  the  price." 

Mrs.  Haldin  turned  her  head  away  and  looked  out  of. 
the  window  for  a  time,  with  that  new,  somber,  extinct 
gaze  of  her  sunken  eyes  which  so  completely  made  an- 
other woman  of  her. 

"That  Englishman,  this  correspondent,"  she  ad- 
dressed me  suddenly,  "do  you  think  it  is  possible  that 
he  knew  my  son?" 

To  this  strange  question  I  could  only  say  that  it  was 
possible,  of  course.     She  saw  my  surprise. 

"If  one  knew  what  sort  of  man  he  was  one  could, 
perhaps,  write  to  him,"  she  murmured. 

"Mother  thinks,"  explained  Miss  Haldin,  standing 
between  us,  with  one  hand  resting  on  the  back  of  my 
chair,  "that  my  poor  brother,  perhaps,  did  not  try  to 
save  himself." 

I  looked  up  at  Miss  Haldin  in  sympathetic  consterna- 

112 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

tion,  but  Miss  Haldin  was  looking  down  calmly  at  her 
mother.     The  latter  said: 

"We  do  not  know  the  address  of  any  of  his  friends. 
Indeed,  we  know  nothing  of  his  Petersburg  comrades. 
He  had  a  multitude  of  young  friends,  only  he  never  spoke 
much  of  them.  One  could  guess  that  they  were  his 
disciples  and  that  they  idolized  him.  But  he  was  so 
modest.  One  would  think  that  with  so  many  de- 
voted ..." 

She  averted  her  head  again  and  looked  down  the 
Boulevard  des  Philosophes,  a  singularly  arid  and  dusty 
thoroughfare,  where  nothing  could  be  seen  at  the  moment 
but  two  dogs,  a  little  girl  in  a  pinafore  hopping  on  one 
leg,  and  in  the  distance  a  workman  wheeling  a  bicycle. 

"Even  among  the  apostles  of  Christ  there  was  found 
a  Judas,"  she  whispered  as  if  to  herself,  but  with  the 
evident  intention  to  be  heard  by  me. 

The  Russian  visitors  assembled  in  little  knots,  con- 
versed amongst  themselves  meantime  in  low  murmurs 
and  with  brief  glances  in  our  direction.  It  was  a  great 
contrast  to  the  usual  loud  volubility  of  these  gatherings. 
Miss  Haldin  followed  me  into  the  anteroom. 

"People  will  come,"  she  said.  "We  cannot  shut  the 
door  in  their  faces." 

While  I  was  putting  on  my  overcoat  she  began  to  talk 
to  me  of  her  mother.  Poor  Mrs.  Haldin  was  fretting 
after  more  news.  She  wanted  to  go  on  hearing  about 
her  unfortunate  son.  She  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
to  abandon  him  quietly  to  the  dumb  unknown.  She 
would  persist  in  pursuing  him  in  there  through  the  long 
days  of  motionless  silence  face  to  face  with  the  empty 
Boulevard  des  Philosophes.  She  could  not  understand 
why  he  had  not  escaped — as  so  many  other  revolutionists 
and  conspirators  had  managed  to  escape  in  other  in- 
stances of  that  kind.  It  was  really  inconceivable  that 
the  means  of  secret  revolutionary  organizations  should 
have  failed  so  inexcusably  to  preserve  her  son.     But  in 

113 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

reality  the  inconceivable  that  staggered  her  mind  was 
nothing  but  the  cruel  audacity  of  Death  passing  over 
her  head  to  strike  at  that  j^oung  and  precious  heart. 

Miss  Haldin  mechanically,  with  an  absorbed  look, 
handed  me  my  hat.  I  understood  from  her  that  the 
poor  woman  was  possessed  by  the  somber  and  simple 
idea  that  her  son  must  have  perished  because  he  did  not 
want  to  be  saved.  It  could  not  have  been  that  he 
despaired  of  his  country's  future.  That  was  impossible. 
Was  it  possible  that  his  mother  and  sister  had  not  known 
how  to  merit  his  confidence;  and  that,  after  having  done 
what  he  was  compelled  to  do,  his  spirit  became  crushed 
by  an  intolerable  doubt,  his  mind  distracted  by  a  sudden 
mistrust  ? 

I  was  very  much  shocked  by  this  piece  of  ingenu- 
ity. 

**  Our  three  lives  were  like  that  !'*  Miss  Haldin  twined 
the  fingers  of  both  her  hands  together  in  demonstration, 
then  separated  them  slowly,  looking  straight  into  my 
face.  "That's  what  poor  mother  found  to  torment  her- 
self and  me  with,  for  all  the  years  to  come,"  added  this 
strange  girl.  At  that  moment  her  indefinable  charm  was 
revealed  to  me  in  the  conjunction  of  passion  and  stoicism. 
I  imagined  what  her  life  was  likely  to  be  by  the  side  of 
Mrs.  Haldin 's  terrible  immobility,  inhabited  by  that 
fixed  idea.  But  my  concern  was  reduced  to  silence  by 
my  ignorance  of  her  modes  of  feeling.  Difference  of 
nationality  is  a  terrible  obstacle  for  our  complex  Western 
natures.  But  Miss  Haldin  probably  was  too  simple  to 
suspect  my  embarrassment.  She  did  not  wait  for  me  to 
say  anything,  but,  as  if  reading  my  thoughts  on  my  face, 
she  went  on,  courageously: 

**  At  first  poor  mother  went  numb,  as  our  peasants  say; 
then  she  began  to  think,  and  she  will  go  on  now  thinking 
and  thinking  in  that  unfortunate  strain.  You  see,  your- 
self, how  cruel  that  is.  .  .  ." 

I  never  spoke  with  greater  sincerity  than  when   I 

114 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

agreed  with  her  that  it  would  be  deplorable  in  the  highest 
degree.     She  took  an  anxious  breath. 

"But  all  these  strange  details  in  the  English  paper," 
she  exclaimed,  suddenly.  "What  is  the  meaning  of 
them?  I  suppose  they  are  true?  But  is  it  not  terrible 
that  my  poor  brother  should  be  caught  wandering 
alone,  as  if  in  despair,  about  the  streets  at  night?  .  .  ." 

We  stood  so  close  to  each  other  in  the  dark  anteroom 
that  I  could  see  her  biting  her  lower  lip  to  suppress  a  dry 
sob.     After  a  short  pause  she  said: 

"I  suggested  to  mother  that  he  may  have  been  be- 
trayed by  some  false  friend  or  simply  by  some  cowardly 
creature.     It  may  be  easier  for  her  to  believe  that." 

I  understood  now  the  poor  woman's  whispered  allusion 
to  Judas. 

"  It  may  be  easier,"  I  admitted,  admiring  inwardly  the 
directness  and  the  subtlety  of  the  girl's  outlook.  She 
was  dealing  with  life  as  it  was  made  for  her  by  the 
political  conditions  of  her  country.  She  faced  cruel 
realities,  not  morbid  imaginings  of  her  own  making.  I 
could  not  defend  myself  from  a  certain  feeling  of  respect 
when  she  added,  simply: 

"Time,  they  say,  can  soften  every  sort  of  bitterness. 
But  I  cannot  believe  that  it  has  any  power  over  remorse. 
It  is  better  that  mother  should  think  some  person  guilty 
of  Victor's  death  than  that  she  should  connect  it  with  a 
weakness  of  her  son  or  a  shortcoming  of  her  own." 
,     "But  you,  yourself,  don't  suppose  that  ..."  I  began. 

She  compressed  her  lips  and  shook  her  head.  She 
harbored  no  evil  thoughts  against  any  one,  she  declared 
— and  perhaps  nothing  that  happened  was  unnecessary. 
On  these  words,  pronounced  low  and  sounding  mysterious 
in  the  half -obscurity  of  the  anteroom,  we  parted  with  an 
expressive  and  warm  handshake.  The  grip  of  her  strong, 
shapely  hand  had  a  seductive  frankness,  a  sort  of  ex- 
quisite virility.  I  do  not  know  why  she  should  have 
felt  so  friendly  to  me.     It  may  be  that  she  thought  I 

"5 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

understood  her  much  better  than  I  was  able  to  do.  The 
most  precise  of  her  sayings  seemed  always  to  me  to  have 
enigmatical  prolongations,  vanishing  somewhere  beyond 
my  reach.  I  am  reduced  to  suppose  that  she  appre- 
ciated my  attention  and  my  silence.  The  attention  she 
could  see  was  quite  sincere,  so  that  the  silence  could  not 
be  suspected  of  coldness.  It  seemed  to  satisfy  her. 
And  it  is  to  be  noted  that  if  she  confided  in  me  it  was 
clearly  not  with  the  expectation  of  receiving  advice,  for 
which,  indeed,  she  never  asked. 


II 

OUR  daily  relations  were  interrupted  at  this  period 
for  something  like  a  fortnight.  I  had  to  absent 
myself  unexpectedly  from  Geneva.  On  my  return  I  lost 
no  time  in  directing  my  steps  up  the  Boulevard  des 
Philosophes. 

Through  the  open  door  of  the  drawing-room  I  was  an- 
noyed to  hear  a  visitor  holding  forth  steadily  in  an 
unctuous,  deep  voice. 

Mrs.  Haldin's  arm-chair  by  the  window  stood  empty. 
On  the  sofa,  Nathalie  Haldin  raised  her  charming  gray 
eyes  in  a  glance  of  greeting  accompanied  by  the  merest 
hint  of  a  welcoming  smile.  But  she  made  no  movement. 
With  her  strong,  white  hands  lying  inverted  in  the  lap  of 
her  mourning  dress  she  faced  a  man  who  presented  to  me 
a  robust  back  covered  with  black  broadcloth  and  well 
in  keeping  with  the  deep  voice.  He  turned  his  head 
sharply  over  his  shoulder,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"Ah!  your  English  friend.  I  know.  I  know.  That's 
nothing." 

He  wore  spectacles  with  smoked  glasses;  a  tall  silk 
hat  stood  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  his  chair.  Flourish- 
ing slightly  a  big,  soft  hand,  he  went  on  with  his  discourse, 
precipitating  his  delivery  a  little  more. 

"I  have  never  changed  the  faith  I  held  while  wander- 
ing in  the  forests  and  bogs  of  Siberia.  It  sustained 
me  then — it  sustains  me  now.  The  great  powers  of 
Europe  are  bound  to  disappear — and  the  cause  of  their 
collapse  will  be  very  simple.  They  will  exhaust  them- 
selves struggling  against  their  proletariate.    In  Russia  it 

117 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

is  different.  In  Russia  we  have  no  classes  to  combat 
each  other,  one  holding  the  power  of  wealth,  and  the 
other  mighty  with  the  strength  of  numbers.  We  have 
only  an  unclean  bureaucracy  in  the  face  of  a  people  as 
great  and  as  incorruptible  as  the  ocean.  No,  we  have  no 
classes.  But  we  have  the  Russian  woman.  The  ad- 
mirable Russian  woman!  I  receive  most  remarkable 
letters  signed  by  women.  So  elevated  in  tone,  so  cou- 
rageous, breathing  such  a  noble  ardor  of  service!  The 
greatest  part  of  our  hopes  rests  on  women.  I  behold  their 
thirst  for  knowledge.  It  is  admirable.  Look  how  they 
absorb,  how  they  are  making  it  their  own.  It  is  miracu- 
lous. But  what  is  knowledge?  ...  I  understand  that 
you  have  not  been  studying  anything  especially — medi- 
cine, for  instance.  No?  That's  right.  Had  I  been  hon- 
ored by  being  asked  to  advise  you  on  the  use  of  your 
time  when  you  arrived  here,  I  would  have  been  strongly 
opposed  to  such  a  course.  Knowledge  in  itself  is  mere 
dross." 

He  had  one  of  those  bearded  Russian  faces  without 
shape,  a  mere  appearance  of  tiesh  and  hair  with  not 
a  single  feature  having  any  sort  of  character.  His  eyes 
being  hidden  by  the  dark  glasses,  there  was  an  utter 
absence  of  all  expression.  I  knew  him  by  sight.  He 
was  a  Russian  refugee  of  mark.  All  Geneva  knew  his 
burly,  black-coated  figure.  At  one  time  all  Europe  was 
aware  of  the  story  of  his  life  written  by  himself  and 
translated  into  seven  or  more  languages.  In  his  youth 
he  had  led  an  idle,  dissolute  life.  Then  a  society  girl  he 
was  about  to  marry  died  suddenly,  and  thereupon  he 
abandoned  the  world  of  fashion  and  began  to  conspire 
in  a  spirit  of  repentance,  and,  after  that,  his  native 
autocracy  took  good  care  that  the  usual  things  should 
happen  to  him.  He  was  imprisoned  in  fortresses,  beaten 
within  an  inch  of  his  life,  and  condemned  to  work  in 
mines  with  common  criminals.  The  great  success  of  his 
book,  however,  was  the  chain. 

ii8 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

I  do  not  remember  now  the  details  of  the  weight  and 
length  of  the  fetters  riveted  on  his  limbs  by  an  "Ad- 
ministrative" order,  but  it  was,  in  the  number  of  pounds 
and  the  thickness  of  links,  an  appalling  assertion  of  the 
divine  rights  of  autocracy.  Appalling  and  futile,  too, 
because  this  big  man  managed  to  carry  off  that  simple 
engine  of  government  with  him  into  the  woods.  The 
sensational  clink  of  these  fetters  is  heard  all  through  the 
chapters  describing  his  escape — a  subject  of  wonder  to 
two  continents.  He  had  begun  by  concealing  himself 
successfully  from  his  guards  in  a  hole  on  a  river-bank. 
It  was  the  end  of  day;  with  infinite  labor  he  managed 
to  free  one  of  his  legs.  Meantime  night  fell.  He  was 
going  to  begin  on  his  other  leg  when  he  was  overtaken  by 
a  terrible  misfortune.     He  dropped  his  file. 

All  this  is  precise,  yet  symbolic;  and  the  file  had  its 
pathetic  history.  It  was  given  to  him  unexpectedly  one 
evening  by  a  quiet,  pale-faced  girl.  The  poor  creature 
had  come  out  to  the  mines  to  join  one  of  his  fellow-con- 
victs, a  delicate  young  man,  a  mechanic  and  a  social 
democrat,  with  broad  cheek-bones  and  large,  staring 
eyes.  She  had  worked  her  way  across  half  Russia  and 
nearly  the  whole  of  Siberia  to  be  near  him,  and,  as  it 
seems,  with  the  hope  of  helping  him  to  escape.  But 
she  arrived  too  late.  Her  lover  had  died  only  a  week 
before. 

Through  that  obscure  episode,  as  he  says,  in  the  his- 
tory of  ideas  in  Russia,  the  file  came  into  his  hands, 
and  inspired  him  with  an  ardent  resolution  to  regain 
his  liberty.  When  it  slipped  through  his  fingers  it  was 
as  if  it  had  gone  straight  into  the  earth.  He  could 
by  no  manner  of  means  put  his  hand  on  it  again  in  the 
dark.  He  groped  systematically  in  the  loose  earth,  in 
the  mud,  in  the  water;  the  night  was  passing  meantime, 
the  precious  night  on  which  he  counted  to  get  away  into 
the  forests,  his  only  chance  of  escape.  For  a  moment 
he  was  tempted  by  despair  to  give  up,  but,  recalling  the 
9  119 

I 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

quiet,  sad  face  of  the  heroic  girl,  he  felt  profoundly- 
ashamed  of  his  weakness.  She  had  selected  him  for  the 
gift  of  liberty,  and  he  must  show  himself  worthy  of  the 
favor  conferred  by  her  feminine,  indomitable  soul.  It 
appeared  to  be  a  sacred  trust.  To  fail  would  have  been 
a  sort  of  treason  against  the  sacredness  of  self-sacrifice 
and  womanly  love. 

There  are  in  his  book  whole  pages  of  self-analysis 
whence  emerges  like  a  white  figure  from  a  dark,  con- 
fused sea  the  conviction  of  woman's  spiritual  superiority 
— his  new  faith  confessed  since  in  several  volumes.  His 
first  tribute  to  it,  the  great  act  of  his  conversion,  was  his 
extraordinary  existence  in  the  endless  forests  of  the 
Okhotsk  Province,  with  the  loose  end  of  the  chain  wound 
about  his  waist.  A  strip  torn  off  his  convict  shirt  se- 
cured the  end  firmly.  Other  strips  fastened  it  at  in- 
tervals up  his  left  leg  to  deaden  the  clanking  and  to  pre- 
vent the  slack  links  from  getting  hooked  in  the  bushes. 
He  became  very  fierce.  He  developed  an  unsuspected 
genius  for  the  arts  of  a  wild  and  haunted  existence.  He 
learned  to  creep  into  villages  without  betraying  his 
presence  by  anything  more  than  an  occasional  faint 
jingle.  He  broke  into  outhouses  with  an  axe  he  man- 
aged to  purloin  in  a  wood-cutters'  camp.  In  the  de- 
serted tracts  of  country  he  lived  on  wild  berries  and 
hunted  for  honey.  His  clothing  dropped  off  him 
gradually.  His  naked,  tawny  figure,  glimpsed  vaguely 
through  the  bushes  with  a  cloud  of  mosquitos  and 
flies  hovering  about  the  shaggy  head,  spread  tales  of 
terror  through  whole  districts.  His  temper  grew 
savage  as  the  days  went  by,  and  he  was  glad  to  dis- 
cover that  there  was  so  much  of  a  brute  in  him.  He 
had  nothing  else  to  put  his  trust  in.  For  it  was  as 
though  there  had  been  two  human  beings  indissolubly 
joined  in  that  enterprise:  the  civilized  man,  the  en- 
thusiast of  advanced  humanitarian  ideals  thirsting  for 
the  triumph  of  spiritual  love  and  political  liberty,  and 

1 20 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

the  stealthy  primeval  savage,  pitilessly  cunning  in  the 
preservation  of  his  freedom  from  day  to  day  like  a 
tracked  wild  beast. 

The  wild  beast  was  making  its  way  instinctively  east- 
ward to  the  Pacific  coast,  and  the  civilized  humani- 
tarian in  fearful,  anxious  dependence,  watched  the  pro- 
ceedings with  awe.  Through  all  these  weeks  he  could 
never  make  up  his  mind  to  appeal  to  human  com- 
passion. In  the  wary  primeval  savage  this  shyness 
might  have  been  natural ;  but  the  other,  too,  the  civilized 
creature,  the  thinker,  the  escaping  "political,"  had  de- 
veloped an  absurd  form  of  morbid  pessimism,  a  form  of 
temporary  insanity,  originating,  perhaps,  in  the  physical 
worry  and  discomfort  of  the  chain.  These  links,  he 
fancied,  made  him  odious  to  the  rest  of  mankind.  It 
was  a  repugnant  and  suggestive  load.  Nobody  could 
feel  any  pity  at  the  disgusting  sight  of  a  man  escaping 
with  a  broken  chain.  His  imagination  became  affected 
by  his  fetters  in  a  precise,  matter-of-fact  manner.  It 
seemed  to  him  impossible  that  people  could  resist  the 
temptation  of  fastening  the  loose  end  to  a  staple  in  the 
wall  while  they  went  for  the  nearest  police  official. 
Crouching  in  holes  or  hidden  in  thickets,  he  had  tried  to 
read  the  faces  of  unsuspecting  free  settlers  working  in 
the  clearings  or  passing  along  the  paths  within  a  foot  or 
two  of  his  eyes.  His  feeling  was  that  no  man  on  earth 
could  be  trusted  with  the  temptation  of  the  chain. 

One  day,  however,  he  chanced  to  come  upon  a  solitary 
woman.  It  was  on  an  open  slope  of  rough  grass  outside 
the  forest.  She  sat  on  the  bank  of  a  narrow  stream; 
she  had  a  red  handkerchief  on  her  head  and  a  small 
basket  was  lying  on  the  ground  near  her  hand.  At  a 
little  distance  could  be  seen  a  cluster  of  log  cabins,  with 
a  water-mill  over  a  dammed  pool  shaded  by  birch- 
trees  and  looking  bright  as  glass  in  the  twilight.  He 
approached  her  silently,  his  hatchet  stuck  in  his  iron 
belt,  a  thick  cudgel  in  his  hand;  there  were  leaves  and 

121 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

bits  of  twig  in  his  tangled  hair,  in  his  matted  beard; 
bunches  of  rags  he  had  wound  round  the  links  fluttered 
from  his  waist.  A  faint  clink  of  his  fetters  made  the 
woman  turn  her  head.  Too  terrified  by  this  savage 
apparition  to  jump  up  or  even  to  scream,  she  was  yet  too 
stout-hearted  to  faint.  .  .  .  Expecting  nothing  less  than 
to  be  murdered  on  the  spot,  she  covered  her  eyes  to  avoid 
the  sight  of  the  descending  axe.  When  at  last  she  found 
courage  to  look  again,  she  saw  the  shaggy  wild  man 
sitting  on  the  bank  six  feet  away  from  her.  His  thin, 
sinewy  arms  hugged  his  naked  legs;  the  long  beard 
covered  the  knees  on  which  he  rested  his  chin;  all 
these  clasped,  folded  limbs,  the  bare  shoulders,  the 
wild  head  with  red,  staring  eyes,  shook  and  trembled 
violently  while  the  bestial  creature  was  making  efforts 
to  speak.  It  was  six  weeks  since  he  had  heard  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice.  It  seemed  as  though  he  had 
lost  the  faculty  of  speech.  He  had  become  a  dumb 
and  despairing  brute,  till  the  woman's  sudden,  un- 
expected cry  of  profound  pity,  the  insight  of  her 
feminine  compassion  discovering  the  complex  misery 
of  the  man  under  the  terrifying  aspect  of  the  monster, 
restored  him  to  the  ranks  of  humanity.  This  point  of 
view  is  presented  in  his  book  with  a  very  effective 
eloquence.  She  ended,  he  says,  by  shedding  tears  over 
him,  sacred,  redeeming  tears,  while  he  also  wept  with 
joy  in  the  manner  of  a  converted  sinner.  Directing  him 
to  hide  in  the  bushes  and  wait  patiently  (a  police  patrol 
was  expected  in  the  settlement),  she  went  away  toward 
the  houses,  promising  to  return  at  night. 

As  if  providentially  appointed  to  be  the  newly  wedded 
wife  of  the  village  blacksmith,  the  woman  persuaded  her 
husband  to  come  out  with  her,  bringing  some  tools  of  his 
trade — a  hammer,  a  chisel,  a  small  anvil.  .  .  .  **My  fet- 
ters," the  book  says,  ''were  struck  off  on  the  banks  of 
the  stream,  in  the  starlight  of  a  calm  night  by  an  athletic, 
taciturn  young  man  of  the  people,  kneeling  at  my  feet, 

122 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

while  the  woman,  like  a  liberating  genius,  stood  by  with 
clasped  hands."  Obviously  a  symbolic  couple.  At  the 
same  time  they  furnished  his  regained  humanity  with 
some  decent  clothing,  and  put  heart  into  the  new  man 
by  the  information  that  the  seacoast  of  the  Pacific  was 
only  a  very  few  miles  away — it  could  be  seen,  in  fact, 
from  the  top  of  the  next  ridge.  .  .   . 

The  rest  of  his  escape  does  not  lend  itself  to  mystic 
treatment  and  symbolic  interpretation.  He  ended  by 
finding  his  way  to  the  West  by  the  Suez  Canal  route  in 
the  usual  manner.  Reaching  the  shores  of  South  Europe, 
he  sat  down  to  write  his  autobiography — the  great 
literary  success  of  its  year.  This  book  was  followed  by 
other  books,  written  with  the  declared  purpose  of 
elevating  humanity.  In  these  works  he  preached  gener- 
ally the  cult  of  the  woman.  For  his  own  part  he  prac- 
tised it  under  the  rites  of  special  devotion  to  the  tran- 
scendental merits  of  a  certain  Madame  de  S ,  a  lady 

of  advanced  views,  no  longer  very  young,  once  upon  a 
time  the  intriguing  wife  of  a  now  dead  and  forgotten 
diplomat.  Her  loud  pretensions  to  be  one  of  the  leaders 
of  modern  thought  and  of  modem  sentiment  she  shel- 
tered (like  Voltaire  and  Madame  de  Stael)  on  the  repub- 
lican territory  of  Geneva.  Driving  through  the  streets 
in  her  big  landau,  she  exhibited,  to  the  indifference  of  the 
natives  and  the  stares  of  the  tourists,  a  long-waisted, 
youthful  figure  of  hieratic  stiffness,  with  a  pair  of  big, 
gleaming  eyes,  rolling  restlessly  behind  a  short  veil  of 
black  lace  which,  coming  down  no  farther  than  her 
vividly  red  lips,  resembled  a  mask.  Usually  the  **  heroic 
fugitive"  (this  name  was  bestowed  upon  him  in  a  review 
of  the  English  edition  of  his  book)  accompanied  her, 
sitting,  portentously  bearded  and  darkly  bespectacled, 
not  by  her  side,  but  opposite  her,  with  his  back  to  the 
horses.  Thus  facing  each  other,  with  no  one  else  in  the 
roomy  carriage,  tlieir  airings  suggested  a  conscious  pub- 
lic manifestation.     Or  it  may  have  been  unconscious. 

123 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Russian  simplicity  often  marches  innocently  on  the  edge 
of  cynicism  for  some  lofty  purpose.  But  it  is  a  vain 
enterprise  for  sophisticated  Europe  to  try  and  understand 
these  doings.  Considering  the  air  of  gravity  extending 
even  to  the  physiognomy  of  the  coachman  and  the  action 
of  the  showy  horses,  this  quaint  display  might  have  pos- 
sessed a  mystic  significance,  but  to  the  corrupt  frivolity 
of  a  Western  mind,  like  my  own,  it  seemed  hardly  decent. 
However,  it  is  not  becoming  for  an  obscure  teacher  of 
languages  to  criticize  a  "heroic  fugitive"  of  world-wide 
celebrity.  I  was  aware,  from  hearsay,  that  he  was  an 
industrious  busybody,  hunting  up  his  compatriots  in 
hotels,  in  private  lodgings,  and  —  I  was  told  —  con- 
ferring upon  them  the  honor  of  his  notice  in  public 
gardens  when  a  suitable  opening  presented  itself.  I 
was  under  the  impression  that  after  a  visit  or  two  several 
months  before,  he  had  given  up  the  ladies  Hal  din  —  no 
doubt  reluctantly,  for  there  could  be  no  question  of  his 
being  a  determined  person.  It  was,  perhaps,  to  be  ex- 
pected that  he  should  reappear  again  on  this  terrible 
occasion,  as  a  Russian  and  a  revolutionist,  to  say  the 
right  thing,  to  strike  the  true,  perhaps  a  comforting, 
note.  But  I  did  not  like  to  see  him  sitting  there.  I 
trust  that  an  unbecoming  jealousy  of  my  privileged  posi- 
tion had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  made  no  claim  to  a 
special  standing  for  my  silent  friendship.  Removed  by 
the  difference  of  age  and  nationality,  as  if  into  the 
sphere  of  another  existence,  I  produced,  even  upon  my- 
self, the  effect  of  a  dumb,  helpless  ghost,  of  an  anxious, 
immaterial  thing  that  could  only  hover  about  without 
the  power  to  protect  or  guide  by  as  much  as  a  whisper. 
Since  Miss  Haldin,  with  her  sure  instinct,  had  refrained 
from  introducing  me  to  the  burly  celebrity,  I  would  have 
retired  quietly  and  returned  later  on  had  I  not  met  a 
pecuhar  expression  in  her  eyes  which  I  interpreted  as  a 
request  to  stay,  with  the  view,  perhaps,  of  shortening  an 
unwelcome  visit. 

124 


UNDER    WESTERN     EYES 

He  picked  up  his  hat,  but  only  to  deposit  it  on  his 
knees. 

"We  shall  meet  again,  Natalia  Viktorovna.  To-day  I 
have  called  only  to  mark  those  feelings  toward  your 
honored  mother  and  yourself,  the  nature  of  which  you 
cannot  doubt.     I  needed  no  urging,  but  Eleanor  (Madame 

de  S )  herself  has,  in  a  way,  sent  me.     She  extends 

to  you  the  hand  of  feminine  fellowship.  There  is  posi- 
tively in  all  the  range  of  human  sentiments  no  joy  and  no 
sorrow  that  woman  cannot  understand,  elevate,  and 
spiritualize  by  her  interpretation.  That  young  man 
newly  arrived  from  St.  Petersburg  I  have  mentioned  to 
you  is  already  under  the  charm." 

At  this  point  Miss  Haldin  got  up  abruptly.  I  was 
glad.  He  did  not  evidently  expect  anything  so  de- 
cisive, and,  at  first,  throwing  his  head  back,  he  tilted  up 
his  dark  glasses  with  an  air  of  bland  curiosity.  At  last, 
recollecting  himself,  he  stood  up  hastily,  seizing  his  hat 
off  his  knees  with  great  adroitness. 

"How  is  it,  Natalia  Viktorovna,  that  you  have  kept 
aloof  so  long  from  what,  after  all,  is — let  disparaging 
tongues  say  what  they  like — a  unique  center  of  intel- 
lectual freedom  and  of  effort  to  shape  a  high  conception 
of  our  future?  In  the  case  of  your  honored  mother, 
I  understand  in  a  measure.  At  her  age  new  ideas 
— ^new  faces  are  not,  perhaps  .  .  .  But  you!  Was 
it  mistrust  —  or  indifference?  You  must  come  out 
of  your  reserve.  We  Russians  have  no  right  to  be  re- 
served with  each  other.  In  our  circumstances  it  is  al- 
most a  crime  against  humanity.  The  luxury  of  private 
grief  is  not  for  us.  Nowadays  the  devil  is  not  com- 
bated by  prayers  and  fasting.  And  what  is  fasting, 
after  all,  but  starvation  ?  You  must  not  starve  yourself, 
Natalia  Viktorovna.  Strength  is  what  we  want.  Spirit- 
ual strength,  I  mean.  As  to  the  other  kind,  what  could 
withstand  us  Russians  if  we  only  put  it  forth?  Sin 
is  different  in  our  day,  and  the  way  of  salvation  for 

125 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

pure  souls  is  different,  too.     It  is  no  longer  to  be  found 
in  monasteries,  but  in  the  world,  in  the  ..." 

The  deep  sound  seemed  to  rise  from  under  the  floor, 
and  one  felt  steeped  in  it  to  the  lips.  Miss  Haldin's  in- 
terruption resembled  the  effort  of  a  drowning  person  to 
keep  above  water.  She  struck  in  with  an  accent  of  im- 
patience : 

**  But,  Peter  Ivanovitch,  I  don't  mean  to  retire  into  a 
monastery.     Who  would  look  for  salvation  there?" 

**I  spoke  figuratively,"  he  boomed. 

''Well,  then,  I  am  speaking  figuratively,  too.  But 
sorrow  is  sorrow  and  pain  is  pain  in  the  old  way.  They 
make  their  demands  upon  people.  One  has  got  to  face 
them  the  best  way  one  can.  I  know  that  the  blow 
which  has  fallen  upon  us  so  unexpectedly  is  only  an 
episode  in  the  fate  of  a  people.  You  may  rest  assured 
that  I  don't  forget  that.  But  just  now  I  have  to  think  of 
my  mother.  How  can  you  expect  me  to  leave  her  to 
herself?  .  .  ." 

**That  is  putting  it  in  a  very  crude  way,"  he  protested, 
in  his  great,  effortless  voice. 

Miss  Haldin  did  not  wait  for  the  vibration  to  die 
out: 

"  And  run  about  visiting  among  a  lot  of  strange  people. 
The  idea  is  distasteful  for  me;  and  I  do  not  know  what 
else  you  may  mean?" 

He  towered  before  her,  enormous,  deferential,  cropped 
as  close  as  a  convict;  and  this  big  pinkish  poll  evoked 
for  me  the  vision  of  a  wild  head  with  matted  locks  peering 
through  parted  bushes,  glimpses  of  naked,  tawny  limbs, 
slinking  behind  the  masses  of  sodden  foliage  under  a 
cloud  of  flies  and  mosquitos.  It  was  an  involuntary 
tribute  to  the  vigor  of  his  writing.  Nobody  could 
doubt  that  he  had  wandered  in  Siberian  forests,  naked 
and  girt  with  a  chain.  The  black  broadcloth  coat  in- 
vested his  person  with  a  character  of  common  and 
austere  decency — something  recalling  a  missionary. 

126 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Do  you  know  what  I  want,  Natalia  Viktorovna?" 
he  uttered,  solemnly.     "I  want  you  to  be  a  fanatic." 

"A  fanatic!" 

"  Yes.     Faith  alone  won't  do." 

His  voice  dropped  to  a  still  lower  tone.  He  raised  for 
a  moment  one  thick  arm;  the  other  remained  hanging 
down  against  his  thigh,  with  the  fragile  silk  hat  at  the 
end. 

"  I  shall  tell  you  now  something  which  I  entreat  you  to 
ponder  over  carefully.  Listen:  we  need  a  force  that 
would  move  heaven  and  earth — nothing  less." 

The  profound,  subterranean  note  of  this  "nothing 
less"  made  one  shudder,  almost,  like  the  deep  muttering 
of  wind  in  the  pipes  of  an  organ. 

"  And  are  we  to  find  that  force  in  the  salon  of  Madame 

de  S ?     Excuse  me,   Peter  Ivanovitch,  if  I  permit 

myself  to  doubt  it.     Is  not  that  lady  a  woman  of  the 
great  world,  an  aristocrat?" 

"Prejudice!"  he  cried.  "You  astonish  me.  And 
suppose  she  was  all  that  ?  She  is  also  a  woman  of  flesh 
and  blood.  There  is  always  something  to  weigh  down 
the  spiritual  side  in  all  of  us.  But  to  make  of  it  a 
reproach  is  what  I  did  not  expect  from  you.  No!  I  did 
not  expect  that.  One  would  think  you  have  listened  to 
some  malevolent  scandal." 

"I  have  heard  no  gossip,  I  assure  you.  In  our 
province  how  could  we?  But  the  world  speaks  of  her. 
What  can  there  be  in  common  in  a  lady  of  that  sort  and 
an  obscure  country  girl  like  me?" 

"She  is  a  perpetual  manifestation  of  a  noble  and 
peerless  spirit,"  he  broke  in.  "Her  charm — no,  I  shall 
not  speak  of  her  charm.  But,  of  course,  everybody  who 
approaches  her  falls  under  the  spell.  .  .  .  Contradictions 
vanish,  trouble  falls  away  from  one.  .  .  .  Unless  I  am 
mistaken — but  I  never  make  a  mistake  in  spiritual 
matters — you  are  troubled  in  your  soul,  Natalia  Vikto- 
rovna.", 

127 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Miss  Haldin's  clear  eyes  looked  straight  at  his  soft, 
enormous  face;  I  received  the  impression  that  behind 
those  dark  spectacles  of  his  he  could  be  as  impudent  as 
he  chose. 

**Only  the  other  evening,  walking  back  to  town  from 
Chateau  Borel  with  our  latest  interesting  arrival  from 
Petersburg,  I  could  notice  the  powerful  soothing  in- 
fluence— I  may  say  reconciling  influence.  .  .  .  There  he 
was,  all  these  kilometers  along  the  shores  of  the  lake, 
silent,  like  a  man  who  has  been  shown  the  way  of  peace. 
I  could  feel  the  leaven  working  in  his  soul,  you  under- 
stand. For  one  thing,  he  listened  to  me  patiently.  I, 
myself,  was  inspired  that  evening  by  the  firm  and  ex- 
quisite genius  of  Eleanor — Madame  de  S ,  you  know. 

It  was  a  full  moon,  and  I  could  observe  his  face.     I  can- 
not be  deceived.   ..." 

Miss  Haldin,  looking  down,  seemed  to  hesitate. 

''Well!  I  shall  think  of  what  you  said,  Peter  Ivano- 
vitch.  I  shall  try  to  call  as  soon  as  I  can  leave  mother 
for  an  hour  or  two  safely." 

Coldly  as  these  words  were  said,  I  was  amazed  at  such 
a  concession.  He  snatched  her  right  hand  with  such 
fervor  that  I  thought  he  was  going  to  press  it  to  his  lips 
or  his  breast.  But  he  only  held  it  by  the  finger-tips  in 
his  great  paw  and  shook  it  a  little  up  and  down  while  he 
delivered  his  last  volley  of  words. 

"That's  right!  That's  right!  I  haven't  obtained 
your  full  confidence  as  yet,  Natalia  Viktorovna,  but  that 
will  come.  All  in  good  time.  The  sister  of  Victor  Hal- 
din  cannot  be  without  importance.  .  .  .  It's  simply  im- 
possible. And  no  woman  can  remain  sitting  on  the 
steps.  Flowers,  tears,  applause — that  has  had  its  time; 
it's  a  mediaeval  conception.  The  arena,  the  arena  itself 
is  the  place  for  women!" 

He  relinquished  her  hand  with  a  flourish,  as  if  giving 
it  to  her  for  a  gift,  and  remained  still,  his  head  bowed 
in  dignified  submission  before  her  femininity. 

128 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"The  arena!  .  .  .  You  must  descend  into  the  arena, 
NataUa." 

He  stepped  back  a  pace,  bowed  his  enormous  body, 
and  was  gone  swiftly.  The  door  fell  behind  him.  But 
immediately  the  powerful  resonance  of  his  voice  was 
heard  addressing  in  the  anteroom  the  middle-aged  ser- 
vant woman  who  was  letting  him  out.  Whether  he  ex- 
horted her  to  descend  into  the  arena  I  cannot  tell.  The 
thing  sounded  like  a  lecture,  and  the  slight  crash  of  the 
outer  door  cut  it  short  suddenly. 


Ill 


WE  remained  looking  at  each  other  for  a  time. 
"Do  you  know  who  he  is?" 

Miss  Haldin,  coming  forward,  put  this  question  to 
me  in  English. 

I  took  her  offered  hand. 

'*  Everybody  knows.  He  is  a  revolutionary  feminist,  a 
great  writer,  if  you  like,  and — how  shall  I  say  it — the — 
the  familiar  guest  of  Madame  de  S 's  mystic  revolu- 
tionary salon." 

Miss  Haldin  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead. 

"You  know  he  was  with  me  for  more  than  an  hour 
before  you  came  in.  I  was  so  glad  mother  was  lying 
down.  She  has  many  nights  without  sleep,  and  then 
sometimes  in  the  middle  of  the  day  she  gets  a  rest  of 
several  hours.  It  is  sheer  exhaustion — but  still  I  am 
thankful.  ...  If  it  were  not  for  these  intervals." 

She  looked  at  me  and,  with  that  extraordinary  pene- 
tration which  used  to  disconcert  me,  shook  her  head. 

"No.  .  .  .  She  would  not  go  mad." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  I  cried,  by  way  of  protest,  the 
more  shocked  because  in  my  heart  I  was  far  from  think- 
ing Mrs.  Haldin  quite  sane. 

"You  don't  know  what  a  fine,  clear  intellect  mother 
had,"  continued  Nathalie  Haldin,  with  her  calm,  clear- 
eyed  simplicity,  which  seemed  to  me  always  to  have  a 
quality  of  heroism. 

"I  am  sure  .  .  ."  I  murmured. 

"I  darkened  mother's  room  and  came  out  here.  I've 
wanted  for  so  long  to  think  quietly." 

130 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

She  paused;  then,  without  giving  any  sign  of  distress, 
added,  ''It's  so  difficult,"  and  looked  at  me  with  a 
strange  fixity,  as  if  watching  for  a  sign  of  dissent  or 
surprise. 

I  gave  neither.     I  was  irresistibly  impelled  to  say: 

"The  visit  from  that  gentleman  has  not  made  it  any 
easier,  I  fear." 

Miss  Haldin  stood  before  me  with  a  peculiar  expres- 
sion in  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  Peter  Ivanovitch  com- 
pletely. Some  guide  one  must  have,  even  if  one  does 
not  wholly  give  up  the  direction  of  one's  conduct  to  him. 
I  am  an  inexperienced  girl,  but  I  am  not  slavish.  There 
has  been  too  much  of  that  in  Russia;  yet,  why  should 
I  not  listen  to  him  ?  There  is  no  harm  in  having  one's 
thoughts  directed.  But  I  don't  mind  confessing  to  you 
that  I  have  not  been  completely  candid  with  Peter 
Ivanovitch.  I  don't  quite  know  what  prevented  me 
at  the  moment  ..." 

She  walked  away  suddenly  from  me  to  a  distant  part 
of  the  room,  but  it  was  only  to  open  and  shut  a  drawer 
in  a  bureau.  She  returned  with  a  piece  of  paper  in  her 
hand.  It  was  thin  and  blackened  w4th  close  hand- 
writing.    It  was  obviously  a  letter. 

"I  wanted  to  read  you  the  very  words,"  she  said. 
"This  is  one  of  my  poor  brother's  letters.  He  never 
doubted.  How  could  he  doubt  ?  They  make  only  such 
a  small  handful,  these  miserable  oppressors,  before  the 
unanimous  will  of  our  people." 

"Your  brother  believed  in  the  power  of  a  people's  w411 
to  achieve  anything?" 

"It  was  his  religion,"  declared  Miss  Haldin. 

I  looked  at  her  calm  face  and  her  animated  eyes. 

"Of  course  the  will  must  be  awakened,  inspired,  con- 
centrated," she  went  on.  "  That  is  the  true  task  of  real 
agitators.  One  has  got  to  give  up  one's  life  to  it.  The 
degradation  of  servitude;  the  absolutist  lies  must  be 

131 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

•uprooted  and  swept  out.  Reform  is  impossible.  There 
is  nothing  to  reform.  There  is  no  legaUty,  there  are  no 
institutions.  There  are  only  arbitrary  decrees.  There 
is  only  a  handful  of  cruel,  perhaps  blind,  officials, 
against  a  nation." 

The  letter  rustled  slightly  in  her  hand.  I  glanced 
down  at  the  thin,  flimsy,  blackened  pages  whose  very 
handwriting  seemed  cabalistic,  incomprehensible  to  the 
experience  of  Western  Europe. 

''Stated  like  this,"  I  confessed,  "the  problem  seems 
simple  enough.  But  I  fear  I  shall  not  see  it  solved. 
And  if  you  go  back  to  Russia  I  know  that  I  shall  not 
see  you  again.  Yet  once  more  I  say  'Go  back!'  Don't 
suppose  that  I  am  thinking  of  your  preservation.  No! 
I  know  that  you  will  not  be  returning  to  personal  safety. 
But  I  had  much  rather  think  of  you  in  danger  there  than 
see  you  exposed  to  what  may  be  met  here." 

"I  tell  you  what,"  said  Miss  Haldin,  after  a  moment 
of  reflection.  "  I  believe  that  you  hate  revolution ;  you 
fancy  it's  not  quite  honest.  You  belong  to  a  people 
which  has  made  a  bargain  with  fate  and  wouldn't  like  to 
be  rude  to  it.  But  we  have  made  no  bargain.  It  was 
never  offered  to  us — so  much  liberty  for  so  much  hard 
cash.  You  shrink  from  the  idea  of  revolutionary  action 
for  those  you  think  well  of  as  if  it  were  something — how 
shall  I  say  it? — not  quite  decent." 

I  bowed  my  head. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  I  said.  "I  think  very  highly 
of  you." 

"Don't  suppose  I  do  not  know  it,"  she  began,  hur- 
riedly.    "Your  friendship  has  been  very  valuable." 

"  I  have  done  little  else  but  look  on." 

She  was  a  little  flushed  under  the  eyes. 

"There  is  a  way  of  looking  on  which  is  valuable.  I 
have  felt  less  lonely  because  of  it.  It's  difficult  to 
explain." 

"Really?     Well,  I  too  have  felt  less  lonely.     ThaVs 

132 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

easy  to  explain,  though.  But  it  won't  go  on  much 
longer.  The  last  thing  I  want  to  tell  you  is  this:  in  a 
real  revolution — not  a  simple  dynastic  change  or  a  mere 
reform  of  institutions — in  a  real  revolution  the  best 
characters  do  not  come  to  the  front.  A  violent  revolu- 
tion falls  into  the  hands  of  narrow-minded  fanatics  and 
of  tyrannical  hypocrites  at  first.  Afterward  comes  the 
turn  of  all  the  pretentious  intellectual  failures  of  the 
time.  Such  are  the  chiefs  and  the  leaders.  You  will 
notice  that  I  have  left  out  the  mere  rogues.  The 
scrupulous  and  the  just,  the  noble,  humane,  and  devoted 
natures,  the  unselfish  and  the  intelligent  may  begin  a 
movement — but  it  passes  away  from  them.  They  are 
not  the  leaders  of  a  revolution.  They  are  its  victims — 
the  victims  of  disgust,  of  disenchantment — often  of 
remorse.  Hopes  grotesquely  betrayed,  ideals  carica- 
tured— that  is  the  definition  of  revolutionary  success. 
There  have  been  in  every  revolution  hearts  broken  by 
such  successes.  But  enough  of  that.  My  meaning  is 
that  I  don't  want  you  to  be  a  victim." 

"If  I  could  believe  all  you  have  said  I  still  wouldn't 
think  of  myself,"  protested  Miss  Haldin.  "  I  would  take 
liberty  from  any  hand  as  a  hungry  man  would  snatch  at 
a  piece  of  bread.  The  true  progress  must  begin  after. 
And  for  that  the  right  men  shall  be  found.  They  are 
already  among  us.  One  comes  upon  them  in  their 
obscurity,  unknown,  preparing  themselves  .  .   ." 

She  spread  out  the  letter  she  had  kept  in  her  hand  all 
the  time,  and,  looking  down  at  it : 

"Yes!  One  comes  upon  such  men!"  she  repeated, 
and  then  read  out  the  words:  '"Unstained,  lofty,  and 
solitary  existences.'" 

Folding  up  the  letter  while  I  looked  at  her  interroga- 
tively, she  explained: 

"These  are  the  words  which  my  brother  applies  to  a 
young  man  he  came  to  know  in  St.  Petersburg.  An 
intimate  friend,  I  suppose.     It  must  be.     His  is  the  only 

133 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

name  my  brother  mentions  in  all  his  correspondence  with 
me.  Absolutely  the  only  one,  and — would  you  believe 
it? — the  man  is  here.     He  arrived  recently  in  Geneva." 

"Have  you  seen  him?"  I  inquired.  "But  of  course 
you  must  have  seen  him." 

"No!  No!  I  haven't!  I  didn't  know  he  was  here. 
It*s  Peter  Ivanovitch  himself  who  told  me.  You  have 
heard  him  yourself  mentioning  a  new  arrival  from 
Petersburg.  .  .  .  Well,  that  is  the  man  of  '  unstained, 
lofty,  and  solitary  existence.'     My  brother's  friend!" 

"Compromised  politically,  I  suppose,"  I  remarked. 

"I  don't  know.  Yes.  It  must  be  so.  Who  knows! 
Perhaps  it  was  this  very  friendship  with  my  brother 
which  ...  But  no!  It  is  scarcely  possible.  Really  I 
know  nothing  except  what  Peter  Ivanovitch  told  me  of 
him.  He  has  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  from 
Father  Zosim — you  know,  the  priest-democrat;  you 
have  heard  of  Father  Zosim?" 

"  Oh  yes.  The  famous  Father  Zosim  was  staying  here 
in  Geneva  for  some  two  months  about  a  year  ago," 
I  said.  "When  he  left  here  he  seems  to  have  disap- 
peared from  the  world." 

"It  appears  that  he  is  at  work  in  Russia  again. 
Somewhere  in  the  center,"  Miss  Hal  din  said,  with  anima- 
tion. "  But  please  don't  mention  that  to  any  one — don't 
let  it  slip  from  you,  because  if  it  got  into  the  papers  it 
would  be  dangerous  for  him." 

"You  are  anxious,  of  course,  to  meet  that  friend  of 
your  brother?"  I  asked. 

Miss  Haldin  put  the  letter  into  her  pocket.  Her  eyes 
looked  beyond  my  shoulder  at  the  door  of  her  mother's 
room. 

"Not  here,"  she  murmured.  "Not  for  the  first  time, 
at  least." 

After  a  moment  of  silence  I  said  good-by,  but  Miss 
Haldin  followed  me  into  the  anteroom,  closing  the  door 
behind  us  carefully. 

134 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"I  suppose  you  guess  where  I  mean  to  go  to  to- 
morrow?" 

"You  have  made  up  your  mind  to  call  on  Madame 
de  S ." 

"  Yes.     I  am  going  to  the  Chateau  Borel.     I  must." 

"What  do  you  expect  to  hear  there  ?"  I  asked,  in  a  low 
voice. 

I  wondered  if  she  were  not  deluding  herself  with  some 
impossible  hope.     It  was  not  that,  however. 

"Only  think — such  a  friend.  The  only  man  men- 
tioned in  his  letters.  He  would  have  something  to  give 
me,  if  nothing  more  than  a  few  poor  words.  It  may  be 
something  said  and  thought  in  those  last  days.  Would 
you  want  me  to  turn  my  back  on  what  is  left  of  my  poor 
brother?     A  friend." 

"Certainly  not,"  I  said.  "I  quite  understand  your 
pious  curiosity." 

"'Unstained,  lofty,  and  solitary  existences,'"  she 
murmured  to  herself.  "There  are!  There  are!  Well, 
let  me  question  one  of  them  about  the  loved  dead." 

"How  do  you  know,  though,  that  you  will  meet  him 
there?  Is  he  staying  in  the  Chateau  as  a  guest — do 
you  suppose?" 

"I  can't  really  tell,"  she  confessed.  "He  brought  a 
written  introduction  from  Father  Zosim — who,  it  seems, 

is  a  friend  of  Madame  de  S ,  too.     She  can't  be  such 

a  worthless  woman  after  all." 

"There  were  all  sorts  of  rumors  afloat  about  Father 
Zosim  himself,"  I  observed. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Calumny  is  a  weapon  of  our  government,  too.  It's 
well  known.  Oh  yes!  It  is  a  fact  that  Father  Zosim 
had  the  protection  of  the  Governor-General  of  a  certain 
province^  We  talked  on  the  subject  with  my  brother 
two  years  ago,  I  remember.  But  his  work  was  good. 
And  now  he  is  proscribed.  What  better  proof  can  one 
require  ?  But  no  matter  what  that  priest  was  or  is.  All 
10  135 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

that  cannot  affect  my  brother's  friend.  If  I  don't  meet 
him  there  I  shall  ask  these  people  for  his  address.  And, 
of  course,  mother  must  see  him,  too,  later  on.  There  is 
no  guessing  what  he  may  have  to  tell  us.  It  would  be  a 
mercy  if  mamma  could  be  soothed.  You  know  what  she 
imagines.  Some  explanation,  perhaps,  may  be  found, 
or — or  even  made  up,  perhaps.     It  would  be  no  sin." 

"  Certainly,"  I  said.  "  It  would  be  no  sin.  It  may  be 
a  mistake,  though." 

"I  want  her  only  to  recover  some  of  her  old  spirit. 
While  she  is  like  this  I  cannot  think  of  anything  calmly." 

*'Do  you  mean  to  invent  some  sort  of  pious  fraud  for 
your  mother's  sake?"  I  asked. 

"Why  fraud?  Such  a  friend  is  sure  to  know  some- 
thing of  my  brother  in  those  last  days.  He  could  tell 
us.  .  .  .  There  is  something  in  the  facts  which  will  not 
let  me  rest.  I  am  certain  he  meant  to  join  us  abroad — 
that  he  had  some  plans — some  great  patriotic  action  in 
view;  not  only  for  himself,  but  for  both  of  us.  I  trusted 
in  that.  I  looked  forward  to  the  time,  oh!  with  such 
hope  and  impatience!  ...  I  could  have  helped.  And 
now  suddenly  this  appearance  of  recklessness — as  if  he 
had  not  cared.  ..." 

She  remained  silent  for  a  time,  then  obstinately  she 
concluded : 

"I  want  to  know  .  .  ." 

Thinking  it  over,  later  on,  while  I  walked  slowly  away 
from  the  Boulevard  des  Philosophes,  I  asked  myself, 
critically,  what  precisely  was  it  that  she  wanted  to 
know  ?  What  I  knew  of  her  history  was  enough  to  give 
me  a  clue.  In  the  educational  establishment  for  girls 
where  Miss  Haldin  finished  her  studies  she  was  looked 
upon  rather  unfavorably.  She  was  suspected  of  holding 
independent  views  on  matters  settled  by  official  teaching. 
Afterward,  when  the  two  ladies  returned  to  their  country 
place,  both  mother  and  daughter,  by  speaking  their 
minds  openly  on  local  events,  had  earned  for  themselves 

136 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

a  reputation  of  liberalism.  The  three-horse  trap  of  the 
district  police  captain  began  to  be  seen  frequently  in  the 
village.  "I  must  keep  an  eye  on  the  peasants" — so  he 
explained  his  visits  up  at  the  house.  "Two  lonely  ladies 
must  be  looked  after  a  little."  He  would  inspect  the 
walls  as  though  he  wanted  to  pierce  them  with  his  eyes, 
peer  at  the  photographs,  turn  over  the  books  in  the 
drawing-room  negligently,  and,  after  the  usual  refresh- 
ments, would  depart.  But  the  old  priest  of  the  village 
came  one  evening  in  the  greatest  distress  and  agitation, 
to  confess  that  he — the  priest — had  been  ordered  to 
watch,  and  ascertain  in  other  ways,  too  (such  as  using  his 
spiritual  power  with  the  servants),  all  that  was  going  on 
in  the  house,  and  especially  in  respect  of  the  visitors 
these  ladies  received,  who  they  were,  the  length  of  their 
stay,  whether  any  of  them  were  strangers  to  that  part  of 
the  country,  and  so  on.  The  poor,  simple  old  man  was 
in  an  agony  of  humiliation  and  terror.  **  I  came  to  warn 
you.  Be  cautious  in  your  conduct,  for  the  love  of  God. 
I  am  burning  with  shame,  but  there  is  no  getting  out 
from  under  the  net.  I  shall  have  to  tell  them  what  I  see, 
because  if  I  did  not  there  is  my  deacon.  He  would  make 
the  worst  of  things  to  curry  favor.  And  then  my  son-in- 
law,  the  husband  of  my  Parasha,  who  is  a  writer  in  the 
Government  Domain  office — they  would  soon  kick  him 
out — and,  maybe,  send  him  away  somewhere."  The  old 
man  lamented  the  necessities  of  the  times — "when  peo- 
ple do  not  agree,  somehow,"  and  wiped  his  eyes.  He 
did  not  wish  to  spend  the  evening  of  his  days  with  a 
shaven  head  in  the  penitent's  cell  of  some  monastery — 
"and  subjected  to  all  the  severities  of  ecclesiastical  dis- 
cipline; for  they  would  show  no  mercy  to  an  old  man," 
he  groaned.  He  became  almost  hysterical,  and  the  two 
ladies,  full  of  commiseration,  soothed  him  the  best  they 
could  before  they  let  him  go  back  to  his  cottage.  But, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  had  very  few  visitors.  The 
neighbors — some  of  them  old  friends — began  to  keep 

137 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

away;  a  few  from  timidity,  others  with  marked  disdain, 
being  grand  people  that  came  only  for  the  summer. 
Miss  Haldin  explained  to  me — aristocrats,  reactionaries. 
It  was  a  solitary  existence  for  a  young  girl.  Her  rela- 
tions with  her  mother  were  of  the  tenderest  and  most 
open  kind;  but  Mrs.  Haldin  had  seen  the  experiences  of 
her  own  generation,  its  sufferings,  its  deceptions,  its 
apostasies,  too.  Her  affection  for  her  children  was  ex- 
pressed by  the  suppression  of  all  signs  of  anxiety.  She 
maintained  a  heroic  reserve.  To  Nathalie  Haldin,  her 
brother,  with  his  Petersburg  existence,  not  enigmat- 
ical in  the  least  (there  could  be  no  doubt  of  what  he 
felt  or  thought) ,  but  conducted  a  little  mysteriously,  was 
the  only  visible  representative  of  a  proscribed  liberty. 
All  the  significance  of  freedom,  its  indefinite  promises, 
lived  in  their  long  discussions,  which  breathed  the  loftiest 
hope  of  action  and  faith  in  success.  Then,  suddenly,  the 
action,  the  hopes,  came  to  an  end  with  the  details  ferreted 
out  by  the  English  journalist.  The  concrete  fact,  the 
fact  of  his  death,  remained;  but  it  remained  obscure  in 
its  deeper  causes.  She  felt  herself  abandoned  without 
explanation.  But  she  did  not  suspect  him.  What  she 
wanted  was  to  learn,  almost  at  any  cost,  how  she  could 
remain  faithful  to  his  departed  spirit. 


IV 

SEVERAL  days  elapsed  before  I  met  Nathalie  Haldin 
again.  I  was  crossing  the  place  in  front  of  the 
theater  when  I  made  out  her  shapely  figure  in  the  very 
act  of  turning  between  the  gate  pillars  of  the  unattrac- 
tive public  promenade  of  the  Bastions.  She  walked 
away  from  me,  but  I  knew  we  should  meet  as  she  re- 
turned down  the  main  alley — unless,  indeed,  she  were 
going  home.  In  that  case,  I  don't  think  I  should  have 
called  on  her  yet.  My  desire  to  keep  her  away  from 
these  people  was  as  strong  as  ever,  but  I  had  no  illusions 
as  to  my  power.  I  was  but  a  Westerner,  and  it  was 
clear  that  Miss  Haldin  would  not,  could  not,  listen  to 
my  wisdom;  and  as  to  my  desire  of  listening  to  her  voice, 
it  were  better,  I  thought,  not  to  indulge  overmuch  in 
that  pleasure.  No,  I  would  not  have  gone  to  the 
Boulevard  des  Philosophes;  but  when  at  about  the 
middle  of  the  principal  alley  I  saw  Miss  Haldin  coming 
toward  me,  I  felt  I  was  too  curious,  and  too  honest, 
perhaps,  to  run  away. 

There  was  something  of  the  spring  harshness  in  the 
air.  The  blue  sky  was  hard,  but  the  young  leaves  clung 
like  soft  mist  about  the  uninteresting  range  of  trees;  and 
the  clear  sun  put  little  points  of  gold  into  the  gray  of  Miss 
Haldin's  frank  eyes,  turned  to  me  with  a  friendly  greeting. 

I  inquired  after  the  health  of  her  mother. 

She  had  a  slight  movement  of  the  shoulders  and  gave  a 
little  sigh. 

"But,  you  see,  I  did  come  out  for  a  walk  ...  for 
exercise  as  you  English  say." 

139 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

I  smiled  approvingly,  and  she  added  an  unexpected 
remark ; 

**  It  is  a  glorious  day." 

Her  voice,  slightly  harsh,  but  fascinating  with  its 
masculine  and  bird  -  like  quality,  had  the  accent  of 
spontaneous  conviction.  I  was  glad  of  it.  It  was  as 
though  she  had  become  aware  of  her  youth — for  there 
was  but  little  of  spring-like  glory  in  the  rectangular  railed 
space  of  grass  and  trees,  framed  visibly  by  the  orderly 
roof-slopes  of  that  town,  comely  without  grace,  and 
hospitable  without  sympathy.  In  the  very  air  through 
which  vshe  moved  there  was  but  little  warmth;  and  the 
sky,  the  sky  of  a  land  without  horizons,  swept  and 
washed  clean  by  the  April  showers,  extended  a  cold, 
cruel  blue,  without  elevation,  narrowed  suddenly  by  the 
ugly,  dark  wall  of  the  Jura,  where,  here  and  there,  lin- 
gered yet  a  few  miserable  trails  and  patches  of  snow. 
All  the  glory  of  the  season  must  have  been  within  her- 
self— and  I  was  glad  this  feeling  had  come  into  her  life, 
if  only  for  a  little  time. 

**  I  am  pleased  to  hear  you  say  these  words." 

She  gave  me  a  quick  look.  Quick,  not  stealthy.  If 
there  was  one  thing  of  which  she  was  absolutely  incapa- 
ble it  was  stealthiness  of  appearance  or  intention.  Her 
sincerity  was  expressed  in  the  very  rhythm  of  her  walk 
as  she  moved  by  my  side.  It  was  I  who  was  looking  at 
her  covertly — if  I  may  say  so.  I  knew  where  she  had 
been,  but  I  did  not  know  what  she  had  seen  and  heard  in 
that  nest  of  aristocratic  conspiracies.  I  use  the  word 
aristocratic  for  want  of  a  better  term.  The  Chateau 
Borel,  embowered  in  the  trees  and  thickets  of  its  neg- 
lected grounds,  had  its  fame  in  our  day,  like  the  resi- 
dence of  that  other  dangerous  and  exiled  woman,  Mme. 
de  Stael,  in  the  Napoleonic  era.  Only  the  Napoleonic 
despotism,  the  booted  heir  of  the  Revolution,  which 
counted  that  intellectual  woman  for  an  enemy  worthy 
to  be  watched,   was  something  quite  unlike    the   au- 

140 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

tocracy    in    mystic     vestments,     engendered    by    the 

slavery  of  a  Tartar  conquest.     And  Mme.  de  S was 

very  far  from  resembling  the  gifted  author  of  Corinne. 
She  made  a  great  noise  about  being  persecuted.  I  don't 
know  if  she  were  regarded  in  certain  circles  as  dangerous. 
As  to  being  watched,  I  imagine  that  the  Chateau  Borel 
could  be  subjected  only  to  a  most  distant  observation. 
It  was  in  its  exclusiveness  an  ideal  abode  for  hatching 
superior  plots — whether  serious  or  futile.  But  all  this 
did  not  interest  me.  I  wanted  to  know  the  effect  its 
extraordinary  inhabitants  and  its  special  atmosphere 
had  produced  on  a  girl  like  Miss  Haldin,  so  true,  so 
honest,  but  so  dangerously  inexperienced.  Her  un- 
consciously lofty  ignorance  of  the  baser  instincts  of  man- 
kind left  her  disarmed  before  her  own  impulses.  And 
there  was  also  that  friend  of  her  brother,  the  significant 
new  arrival  from  Russia.  ...  I  wondered  whether  she 
had  managed  to  meet  him. 

We  walked  for  some  time,  slowly  and  in  silence. 

"You  know" — I  attacked  her  suddenly — "if  you 
don't  intend  telling  me  anything,  you  must  say  so  dis- 
tinctly, and  then,  of  course,  it  will  be  final.  But  I  won't 
play  at  delicacy.  I  ask  you  point-blank  for  all  the 
details." 

She  smiled  faintly  at  my  threatening  tone. 

"You  are  as  curious  as  a  child." 

"No.  I  am  only  an  anxious  old  man,"  I  replied, 
earnestly. 

She  rested  her  glance  on  me  as  if  to  ascertain  the 
degree  of  my  anxiety  or  the  number  of  my  years.  My 
physiognomy  has  never  been  expressive,  I  believe,  and,  as 
to  my  years,  I  am  not  ancient  enough  as  yet  to  be 
strikingly  decrepit.  I  have  no  long  beard  like  the  good 
hermit  of  a  romantic  ballad.  My  footsteps  are  not  totter- 
ing, my  aspect  not  that  of  a  slow,  venerable  sage.  Those 
picturesque  advantages  are  not  mine.  I  am  old,  alas, 
in  a  brisk,  commonplace  way.     And  it  seemed  to  me 

141 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

as  though  there  were  some  pity  for  me  in  Miss  Haldin's 
prolonged  glance.     She  stepped  out  a  little  quicker. 

"  You  ask  for  all  the  details.  Let  me  see.  I  ought  to 
remember  them.  It  was  novel  enough  for  a — a  village 
girl  like  me." 

After  a  moment  of  silence  she  began  by  saying  that  the 
Chateau  Borel  was  almost  as  neglected  inside  as  outside. 
It  was  nothing  to  wonder  at.  A  Hamburg  banker,  I 
believe,  retired  from  business,  had  it  built  to  cheer  his 
remaining  days  by  the  view  of  that  lake  whose  precise, 
orderly,  and  well-to-do  beauty  must  have  been  attractive 
to  the  unromantic  imagination  of  a  business  man.  But 
he  died  soon.  His  wife  departed,  too  (but  only  to  Italy), 
and  this  house  of  moneyed  ease,  presumably  unsalable, 
had  stood  empty  for  several  years.  One  went  up  to  it 
along  a  gravel  drive,  round  a  large,  coarse  grass-plot, 
with  plenty  of  time  to  observe  the  degradation  of  its 
stuccoed  front.  Miss  Haldin  said  that  the  impression 
was  unpleasant.  It  grew  more  depressing  as  one  came 
nearer. 

She  observed  green  stains  of  moss  on  the  steps  of  the 
terrace.  The  front  door  stood  wide  open.  There  was 
no  one  about.  She  found  herself  in  a  wide,  lofty,  and 
absolutely  empty  hall,  with  a  good  many  doors.  These 
doors  were  all  shut.  A  broad,  bare  stone  staircase  faced 
her.  The  effect  of  the  whole  was  of  an  untenanted 
house.  She  stood  still,  disconcerted  by  the  solitude, 
but  after  a  while  she  became  aware  of  a  voice  speaking 
continuously  somewhere. 

**You  were  probably  being  observed  all  the  time,"  I 
suggested.     "There  must  have  been  eyes." 

"I  don't  see  how  that  could  be,"  she  retorted.  "I 
haven't  seen  even  a  bird  in  the  grounds.  I  don't  re- 
member hearing  a  single  twitter  in  the  trees.  The  whole 
place  appeared  utterly  deserted  except  for  the  voice." 
,  She  could  not  make  out  the  language — Russian,  French, 
or  German.     No  one  seemed  to  answer  it.     It  was  as 

142 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

though  the  voice  had  been  left  behind  by  the  departed  in- 
habitants to  talk  to  the  bare  walls.  It  went  on  volubly, 
with  a  pause  now  and  then.  It  was  lonely  and  sad. 
The  time  seemed  very  long  to  Miss  Haldin.  An  in- 
visible repugnance  prevented  her  from  opening  one  of 
the  doors  in  the  hall.  It  was  so  hopeless.  No  one 
would  come,  the  voice  would  never  stop.  She  confessed 
to  me  that  she  had  to  resist  an  impulse  to  turn  round  and 
go  away  unseen,  as  she  had  come. 

"Really?  You  had  that  impulse?"  I  cried,  full  of 
regret.     "What  a  pity  you  did  not  obey  it.'! 

She  shook  her  head. 

"What  a  strange  memory  it  would  have  been  for  one! 
Those  deserted  grounds,  that  empty  hall,  that  imper- 
sonal, voluble  voice,  and  —  nobody,  nothing,  not  a 
soul." 

The  memory  would  have  been  unique  and  harmless. 
But  she  was  not  a  girl  to  run  away  from  an  intimidating 
impression  of  solitude  and  mystery.  "No,  I  did  not 
run  away,"  she  said.  "  I  stayed  where  I  was — and  I  did 
see  a  soul.     Such  a  strange  soul." 

As  she  was  gazing  up  the  broad  staircase,  and  had  con- 
cluded that  the  voice  came  from  somewhere  above,  a 
rustle  of  dress  and  light  footsteps  attracted  her  attention. 
She  looked  down  and  saw  a  woman  crossing  the  hall, 
having  issued,  apparently,  through  one  of  the  many 
doors.  Her  face  was  averted,  so  that  at  first  she  was 
not  aware  of  Miss  Haldin. 

On  turning  her  head  and  seeing  a  stranger,  she  ap- 
peared very  much  startled.  From  her  slender  figure 
Miss  Haldin  had  taken  her  for  a  young  girl;  but,  if  her 
face  was  almost  childishly  round,  it  was  also  sallow  and 
wrinkled,  w^ith  dark  rings  under  the  eyes.  A  thick  crop 
of  dusty  brown  hair  was  parted  boyishly  on  the  side, 
with  a  lateral  wave  above  the  dry,  furrowed  forehead. 
After  a  moment  of  dumb  blinking  she  suddenly  squatted 
down  on  the  floor. 

143 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"What  do  you  mean — squatted  down?"  I  asked,  as- 
tonished.    "This  is  a  very  strange  detail." 

Miss  Hal  din  explained  the  reason.  This  person  when 
first  seen  was  carrying  a  small  bowl  in  her  hand.  She 
had  squatted  to  set  it  down  on  the  floor  for  the  benefit 
of  a  large  cat,  which  appeared  then  suddenly  from  behind 
her  skirts  and  put  its  head  into  the  bowl  greedily.  She 
got  up  and,  approaching  Miss  Haldin,  asked  with  nervous 
bluntness : 

"What  do  you  want?     Who  are  you?" 

Miss  Haldin  mentioned  her  name  and  also  the  name 
of  Peter  Ivanovitch.  The  girlish,  elderly  woman  nodded 
and  puckered  her  face  into  a  momentary  expression  of 
sympathy.  Her  black  silk  blouse  was  old,  and  even 
frayed  in  places;  the  black  serge  skirt  was  short  and 
shabby.  She  continued  to  blink  at  close  quarters,  and 
her  eyelashes  and  eyebrows  seemed  worn  out,  too.  Miss 
Haldin,  speaking  gently  to  her,  as  if  to  an  unhappy  and 
sensitive  person,  explained  how  it  was  that  her  visit 
could  not  be  an  altogether  unexpected  event  to  Mme. 
de  S . 

"Ah!  Peter  Ivanovitch  brought  you  an  invitation. 
How  was  I  to  know  ?  A  dame  de  compagnie  is  not  con-- 
suited,  as  you  may  imagine." 

The  shabby  woman  laughed  a  little.  Her  teeth, 
splendidly  white  and  admirably  even,  looked  absurdly 
out  of  place,  like  a  string  of  pearls  on  the  neck  of  a 
ragged  tramp.  "  Peter  Ivanovitch  is  the  greatest  genius 
of  the  century,  perhaps,  but  he  is  the  most  inconsiderate 
man  living.  So  if  you  have  an  appointment  with  him 
you  must  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  he  is  not  here." 

Miss  Haldin  protested  that  she  had  no  appointment 
with  Peter  Ivanovitch.  She  became  interested  at  once 
in  that  bizarre  person,  who,  after  taking  breath, 
started  off  again. 

"Why  should  he  put  himself  out  for  you  or  any  one 
else?    Oh!    these  geniuses!     If  you  only  knew!     Yes! 

144 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

And  their  books — I  mean,  of  course,  the  books' that  the 
world  admires,  the  inspired  books.  But  you  have  not 
been  behind  the  scenes.  Wait  till  you  have  to  sit  at  a 
table  for  half  a  day  with  a  pen  in  your  hand.  He  can 
walk  up  and  down  his  rooms  for  hours  and  hours.  I 
used  to  get  so  stiff  and  numb  as  I  sat  that  I  was  afraid  I 
would  lose  my  balance  and  fall  off  the  chair  all  at  once." 

She  kept  her  hands  folded  in  front  of  her,  and  her  eyes, 
fixed  on  Miss  Haldin's  face,  betrayed  no  animation  what- 
ever. Their  expression  was  that  of  quiet  conviction. 
Miss  Haldin,  gathering  that  the  lady  who  called  herself 
a  dame  de  compagnie  was  proud  of  having  acted  as 
secretary  to  Peter  Ivanovitch,  made  an  amiable  remark: 

"You  could  not  imagine  a  more  trying  experience," 
protested    the    lady.     "There    is    an    Anglo-American 

journalist  interviewing   Madame   de   S now   or    I 

would  take  you  up,"  she  continued,  in  a  changed  tone 
and  glancing  toward  the  staircase.  "I  act  as  master  of 
ceremonies." 

It  appeared  that  Mme.  de  S could  not  bear  Swiss 

servants  about  her  person;  and,  indeed,  servants  would 
not  stay  for  very  long  in  the  Chateau  Borel.  There 
were  always  difficulties.  Miss  Haldin  had  already  no- 
ticed that  the  hall  was  like  a  dusty  bam  of  marble  and 
stucco,  with  cobwebs  in  the  corners  and  faint  tracks  of 
mud  on  the  black-and-white  tessellated  floor. 

"I  look  also  after  this  animal,"  continued  the  dame  de 
compagnie^  keeping  her  hands  folded  quietly  in  front  of 
her;  and  she  bent  her  worn  gaze  upon  the  cat.  *'  I  don't 
mind  a  bit.  Animals  have  their  rights;  though,  strictly 
speaking,  I  see  no  reason  why  they  should  not  suffer 
as  well  as  human  beings.  Do  you  ?  But  of  course  they 
never  suffer  so  much.  That  is  impossible.  Only  in  their 
case  it  is  more  pitiful  because  they  cannot  make  a  revolu- 
tion. I  used  to  be  a  republican.  I  suppose  you  are  a 
republican?" 

Miss  Haldin  confessed  to  me  that  she  did  not  know 

145 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

what  to  say.  But  she  nodded  slightly  and  asked,  in  her 
turn: 

"And  are  you  no  longer  a  republican?" 

"After  taking  down  Peter  Ivanovitch  from  dictation 
for  two  years  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  be  anything.  First 
of  all  you  have  to  sit  perfectly  motionless.  The  slightest 
movement  you  make  puts  to  flignt  the  ideas  of  Peter 
Ivanovitch.  You  hardly  dare  to  breathe.  And  as  to 
coughing — God  forbid!  Peter  Ivanovitch  changed  the 
position  of  the  table  to  the  wall  because  at  first  I  could 
not  help  raising  my  eyes  to  look  out  of  the  window  while 
waiting  for  him  to  go  on  with  his  dictation.  That  was 
not  allowed.  He  said  I  stared  so  stupidly.  I  was  like- 
wise not  permitted  to  look  at  him  over  my  shoulder. 
Instantly  Peter  Ivanovitch  stamped  his  foot  and  would 
roar,  *  Look  down  on  the  paper !'  It  seems  my  expression, 
my  face,  put  him  off.  Well,  I  know  that  I  am  not  beau- 
tiful, and  that  my  expression  is  not  hopeful,  either.  He 
said  that  my  air  of  unintelligent  expectation  irritated 
him.     These  are  his  own  words." 

Miss  Haldin  was  shocked,  but  she  confessed  to  me 
that  she  was  not  altogether  surprised. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  Peter  Ivanovitch  could  treat  any 
woman  so  rudely?"  she  asked. 

The  dame  de  compagnie  nodded  several  times  with  her 
air  of  discretion,  then  assured  Miss  Haldin  that  she  did 
not  mind  in  the  least.  The  trying  part  of  it  was  to  have 
the  secret  of  the  composition  laid  bare  before  her ;  to  see 
the  great  author  of  the  revolutionary  gospels  grope  for 
words  as  if  he  were  in  the  dark  as  to  what  he  meant  to 
say. 

"I  am  quite  willing  to  be  the  blind  instrument  of 
higher  ends.  To  give  one's  life  for  the  cause  is  nothing. 
But  to  have  one's  illusions  destroyed — that  is  really  al- 
most more  than  one  can  bear.  I  really  don't  exag- 
gerate," she  insisted.  "It  seemed  to  freeze  my  very 
beliefs  in  me — the  more  so  that  when  we  worked  in 

146 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

winter  Peter  Ivanovitch,  walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
required  no  artificial  heat  to  keep  himself  warm.  Even 
in  the  south  of  France  there  are  bitterly  cold  days,  es- 
pecially when  you  have  to  sit 'still  for  six  hours  at  a 
stretch.  The  walls  of  these  villas  are  so  flimsy.  Peter 
Ivanovitch  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  anything.  It  is 
true  that  I  kept  down  my  shivers  from  fear  of  putting 
him  out.  I  used  to  set  my  teeth  till  my  jaw  felt  abso- 
lutely locked.  In  the  moments  when  Peter  Ivanovitch 
interrupted  his  dictation,  and  sometimes  these  intervals 
were  very  long — often  twenty  minutes,  no  less,  while  he 
walked  to  and  fro  behind  my  back  muttering  to  himself — 
I  felt  I  was  dying  by  inches,  I  assure  you.  Perhaps  if  I 
had  let  my  teeth  rattle,  Peter  Ivanovitch  might  have  no- 
ticed my  distress,  but  I  don't  think  it  would  have  had 
any  practical  effect.     He's  very  miserly  in  such  matters." 

The  dame  de  compagnie  glanced  up  the  staircase.  The 
big  cat  had  finished  the  milk  and  was  rubbing  its  whis- 
kered cheek  sinuously  against  her  skirt.  She  dived  sud- 
denly to  snatch  it  up  from  the  floor. 

**  Miserliness  is  rather  a  quality  than  otherwise,  you 
know,"  she  continued,  holding  the  cat  in  her  folded  arms. 
"With  us  it  is  misers  who  can  spare  money  for  worthy 
objects — not  the  so-called  generous  natures.  But  pray 
don't  think  I  am  a  Sybarite.  My  father  was  a  clerk  in 
the  Ministry  of  Finances  with  no  position  at  all.  You 
may  guess  by  this  that  our  home  was  far  from  luxurious, 
though,  of  course,  we  did  not  actually  suffer  from  cold. 
I  ran  away  from  my  parents,  you  know,  directly  I  began 
to  think  by  myself.  It  is  not  very  easy,  such  thinking. 
One  has  got  to  be  put  in  the  way  of  it,  awakened  to  the 
truth.  I  am  indebted  for  my  salvation  to  an  old  apple- 
woman  who  had  her  stall  under  the  gateway  of  the  house 
we  lived  in.  She  had  a  kind,  wrinkled  face,  and  the  most 
friendly  voice  imaginable.  One  day,  casually,  we  began 
to  talk  about  a  child,  a  ragged  little  girl  we  had  seen 
begging  from  men  in  the  streets  at  dusk;  and  from  one 

147 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

thing  to  another  my  eyes  began  to  open  gradually  to  the 
horrors  from  which  innocent  people  are  made  to  suffer 
in  this  world,  only  in  order  that  governments  might 
exist.  After  I  once  understood  the  crime  of  the  upper 
classes,  I  could  not  go  on  living  with  my  parents.  Not 
a  single  charitable  word  was  to  be  heard  in  our  home 
from  year's  end  to  year's  end;  there  was  nothing  but 
the  talk  of  vile  office  intrigues,  and  of  promotion,  and  of, 
salaries,  and  of  courting  the  favor  of  the  chiefs.  The 
mere  idea  of  marrying  one  day  such  another  man  as  my 
father  made  me  shudder.  I  don't  mean  that  there 
was  any  one  wanting  to  marry  me.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  prospect  of  anything  of  the  kind.  But 
was  it  not  a  sin  enough  to  live  on  a  government 
salary  while  half  Russia  was  dying  of  hunger?  The 
Ministry  of  Finances!  What  a  grotesque  horror  it  is! 
What  do  the  starving,  ignorant  people  want  with  a 
Ministry  of  Finances?  I  kissed  my  old  folks  on  both 
cheeks  and  went  away  from  them  to  live  in  cellars  with 
the  proletariate.  I  tried  to  make  myself  useful  to  the 
utterly  hopeless.  I  suppose  you  understand  what  I 
mean  ?  I  mean  the  people  who  have  nowhere  to  go  and 
nothing  to  look  forward  to  in  this  life.  Do  you  under- 
stand how  frightful  that  is — nothing  to  look  forward  to ! 
Sometimes  I  think  that  it  is  only  in  Russia  that  there 
are  such  people  and  such  a  depth  of  misery  can  be 
reached.  Well,  I  plunged  into  it  and — do  you  know? — 
there  isn't  much  that  one  can  do  in  there.  No,  indeed — 
at  least  as  long  as  there  are  Ministries  of  Finances  and 
such-like  grotesque  horrors  to  stand  in  the  way.  I  sup- 
pose I  would  have  gone  mad  there  just  trying  to  fight 
the  vermin  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  man.  It  was  my  old 
friend  and  teacher,  the  poor,  saintly  apple-woman,  who 
discovered  him  for  me,  quite  accidentally.  She  came  to 
fetch  me  late  one  evening  in  her  quiet  way.  I  followed 
her  where  she  would  lead ;  that  part  of  my  life  was  in  her 
hands  altogether,   and  without  her  my  spirit  would 

148 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

have  perished  miserably.  The  man  was  a  young  work- 
man, a  lithographer  by  trade,  and  he  had  got  into 
trouble  in  connection  with  that  affair  of  temperance 
tracts — you  remember.  There  was  a  lot  of  people  put  in 
prison  for  that.  The  Ministry  of  Finances  again !  What 
would  become  of  it  if  the  poor  folk  ceased  making  beasts 
of  themselves  with  drink?  Upon  my  word,  I  would 
think  that  finances  and  all  the  rest  of  it  are  an  invention 
of  the  devil — if  I  believed  in  a  personal  devil.  Only  the 
belief  in  a  supernatural  source  of  evil  is  not  necessary; 
men  alone  are  quite  capable  of  every  wickedness.  Fi- 
nances indeed!" 

Hatred  and  contempt  hissed  in  her  utterance  of  the 
word  "finances,"  but  at  the  very  moment  she  gently 
stroked  the  cat  reposing  in  her  arms.  She  even  raised 
them  slightly,  and,  inclining  her  head,  rubbed  her  cheek 
against  the  fur  of  the  animal,  which  received  this  caress 
with  the  complete  detachment  so  characteristic  of  its 
kind.     Then  looking  at  Miss  Haldin  she  excused  herself 

once  more  for  not  taking  her  up-stairs  to  Mme.  de  S . 

The  interview  could  not  be  interrupted.  Presently  the 
journalist  would  be  seen  coming  down  the  stairs.  The 
best  thing  was  to  remain  in  the  hall ;  and,  besides,  all 
these  rooms  (she  glanced  all  round  at  the  many  doors) 
— all  these  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  were  unfur- 
nished. 

"Positively  there  is  no  chair  down  here  to  offer  you," 
she  continued.  "But  if  you  prefer  your  own  thoughts 
to  my  chatter,  I  will  sit  down  on  the  bottom  step  here 
and  keep  silent." 

Miss  Haldin  hastened  to  protest.  On  the  contrary, 
she  was  very  much  interested  in  the  story  of  the  journey- 
man lithographer.     He  was  a  revolutionist,  of  course. 

"  A  martyr,  a  simple  man,"  said  the  dame  de  compagnie, 
with  a  faint  sigh  and  gazing  through  the  open  front  door 
dreamily.  She  turned  her  misty  brown  eyes  on  Miss 
Haldin. 

149 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"I  lived  with  him  for  four  months.  It  was  Hke  a 
nightmare." 

As  Miss  Haldin  looked  at  her  inquisitively  she  began 
to  describe  the  emaciated  face  of  the  man,  his  fleshless 
limbs,  his  destitution.  The  room  into  which  the  apple- 
woman  had  led  her  was  a  tiny  garret,  a  miserable  den 
under  the  roof  of  a  sordid  house.  The  plaster  fallen  off 
the  walls  covered  the  floor,  and  when  the  door  was  opened 
a  horrible  tapestry  of  black  cobwebs  waved  in  the 
draught.  He  had  been  liberated  a  few  days  before — 
flung  out  of  prison  into  the  streets.  And  Miss  Haldin 
seemed  to  see,  for  the  first  time,  a  name  and  a  face  upon 
the  body  of  that  suffering  people  whose  hard  fate  had 
been  the  subject  of  so  many  conversations  between  her 
and  her  brother  in  the  garden  of  their  country-house. 

He  had  been  arrested  with  scores  and  scores  of  other 
people  in  that  affair  of  the  lithographed  temperance 
tracts.  Unluckily,  having  got  hold  of  a  great  many  sus- 
pected persons,  the  police  thought  they  could  extract 
from  some  of  them  other  information  relating  to  the 
revolutionist  propaganda. 

"They  beat  him  so  cruelly  in  the  course  of  investiga- 
tion," went  on  the  dame  de  compagnie,  "that  they  in- 
jured him  internally.  When  they  had  done  with  him  he 
was  doomed.  He  could  do  nothing  for  himself.  I  be- 
held him  lying  on  a  wooden  bedstead  without  any  bed- 
ding, with  his  head  on  a  bundle  of  dirty  rags,  lent  to  him 
out  of  charity  by  an  old  ragpicker  who  happened  to  live 
in  the  basement  of  the  house.  There  he  was,  uncovered, 
burning  with  fever,  and  there  was  not  even  a  jug  in  the 
room  for  the  water  to  quench  his  thirst  with.  There  was 
nothing  whatever — just  that  bedstead  and  the  bare 
floor." 

"Was  there  no  one  in  all  that  great  town  among  the 
liberals  and  revolutionaries  to  extend  a  helping  hand  to 
a  brother?"  asked  Miss  Haldin,  indignantly. 

**  Yes.     But  you  do  not  know  the  most  terrible  part  of 

ISO 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

that  man's  misery.  Listen.  It  seems  that  they  ill-used 
him  so  atrociously  that,  at  last,  his  firmness  gave  way, 
and  he  did  let  out  some  information.  Poor  soul,  the 
flesh  is  weak,  you  know.  What  it  was  he  did  not  tell  me. 
There  was  a  crushed  spirit  in  that  mangled  body. 
Nothing  I  found  to  say  could  make  him  whole.  When 
they  let  him  out  he  crept  into  that  hole  and  bore  his  re- 
morse stoically.  He  would  not  go  near  any  one  he  knew. 
I  would  have  sought  assistance  for  him,  but,  indeed, 
where  could  I  have  gone  looking  for  it  ?  Where  was  I  to 
look  for  any  one  who  had  anything  to  spare  or  any  power 
to  help  ?  The  people  living  round  us  were  all  starving  and 
drunken.  They  were  the  victims  of  the  Ministry  of 
Finances.  Don't  ask  me  how  we  lived.  I  couldn't  tell 
you.  It  was  like  a  miracle  of  wretchedness.  I  had 
nothing  to  sell,  and,  I  assure  you,  my  clothes  were  in  such 
a  state  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  go  out  in  the  day- 
time. I  was  indecent.  I  had  to  wait  till  it  was  dark 
before  I  ventured  into  the  streets  to  beg  for  a  crust  of 
bread,  or  whatever  I  could  get,  to  keep  him  and  me  alive. 
Often  I  got  nothing,  and  then  I  would  crawl  back  and  lie 
on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  his  couch.  Oh  yes,  I  can  sleep 
quite  soundly  on  bare  boards.  That  is  nothing,  and  I 
am  only  mentioning  it  to  you  so  that  you  should  not 
think  I  am  a  Sybarite.  It  was  infinitely  less  killing  than 
the  task  of  sitting  for  hours  at  a  table  in  a  cold  study  to 
take  the  books  of  Peter  Ivanovitch  from  dictation.  But 
you  shall  see,  yourself,  what  that  is  like,  so  I  needn't  say 
any  more  about  it." 

**  It  is  by  no  means  certain  that  I  will  ever  take  Peter 
Ivanovitch  from  dictation,"  Miss  Haldin  protested. 

**No!"  said  the  other,  incredulously.  "Not  certain? 
You  mean  to  say  that  you  have  not  made  up  your  mind  ?" 

When  Miss  Haldin  assured  her  that  there  never  had 
been  any  question  of  that  between  her  and  Peter  Ivano- 
vitch, the  woman  with  the  cat  compressed  her  lips 
tightly  for  a  moment. 

11  151 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Oh,  you  will  find  yourself  settled  at  the  table  before 
you  know  that  you  have  made  up  your  mind.  Don't 
make  a  mistake;  it  is  disenchanting  to  hear  Peter 
Ivanovitch  dictate,  but  at  the  same  time  there  is  a  fas- 
cination about  it.  He  is  a  man  of  genius.  Your  face  is 
certain  not  to  irritate  him;  you  may,  perhaps,  even 
help  his  inspiration,  make  it  easier  for  him  to  deliver 
his  message.  As  I  look  at  you  I  feel  certain  that  you 
are  the  kind  of  woman  who  is  not  likely  to  check  the 
flow  of  his  inspiration." 

Miss  Haldin  thought  it  useless  to  protest  against  all 
these  assumptions. 

"But  this  man — this  workman — did  he  die  under  your 
care?"  she  said,  after  a  short  silence. 

The  dame  de  compagnie,  listening  up  the  stairs  where 
now  two  voices  were  alternating  with  some  animation, 
made  no  answer  for  a  time.  When  the  loud  sounds  of 
the  discussion  had  sunk  into  an  almost  inaudible  mur- 
mur, she  turned  to  Miss  Haldin : 

"Yes,  he  died,"  she  said,  "but  not,  literally  speaking, 
in  my  arms,  as  you  might  suppose.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  was  asleep  when  he  breathed  his  last.  So  even  now 
I  cannot  say  I  have  seen  anybody  die.  A  few  days  be- 
fore the  end  some  young  men  had  found  us  out  in  our 
extremity.  They  were  revolutionists,  as  you  might 
guess.  He  ought  to  have  trusted  in  his  political  friends 
when  he  came  out  of  prison.  He  had  been  liked  and 
respected  before,  and  nobody  would  have  dreamed  of 
reproaching  him  with  his  indiscretion  before  the  police. 
Everybody  knows  how  they  go  to  work,  and  the  strong- 
est man  has  his  moments  of  weakness  before  pain.  Why, 
even  hunger  alone  is  enough  to  give  one  queer  ideas  as 
to  what  may  be  done.  A  doctor  came,  our  lot  was  al- 
leviated as  far  as  physical  comforts  go,  but  otherwise 
he  could  not  be  consoled — poor  man!  I  assure  you. 
Miss  Haldin,  that  he  was  very  lovable,  but  I  had  not 
the  strength  to  weep.     I  was  nearly  dead  myself.     But 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

there  were  kind  hearts  to  take  care  of  me.  A  decent 
dress  was  found  to  clothe  my  nakedness.  I  tell  you, 
I  was  not  decent — and  after  a  time  the  revolutionists 
placed  me  with  a  Jewish  family  going  abroad,  as  gov- 
erness.  Of  course,  I  could  teach  the  children — I  finished 
the  sixth  class  of  the  Lyceum;  but  the  real  object  was 
that  I  should  carry  some  important  papers  across  the 
frontier.  I  was  intrusted  with  a  packet  which  I  car- 
ried next  my  heart.  The  gendarmes  at  the  station 
did  not  suspect  the  governess  of  a  Jewish  family,  busy 
looking  after  three  children.  I  don't  suppose  those 
Hebrews  knew  what  I  had  ort  me,  for  I  had  been  in- 
troduced to  them  in  a  very  roundabout  way  by  persons 
who  did  not  belong  to  the  revolutionary  movement,  and 
naturally  I  had  been  instructed  to  accept  a  very  small 
salary.  When  we  reached  Germany  I  left  that  family 
and  delivered  my  papers  to  a  revolutionist  in  Stuttgart; 
after  this  I  was  employed  in  various  ways.  But  you 
do  not  want  to  hear  all  that.  I  have  never  felt  that  I 
was  very  useful,  but  I  live  in  hopes  of  seeing  all  the 
ministries  destroyed,  finances  and  all.  The  greatest 
joy  of  my  life  has  been  to  hear  what  your  brother  has 
done." 

She  directed  her  round  eyes  again  to  the  sunshine 
outside,  while  the  cat,  reposing  within  her  folded  arms, 
had  an  air  of  lordly  beatitude,  and  sphinx-like  medita- 
tion. 

"Yes!  I  rejoiced,"  she  began  again.  "For  me  there 
is  a  heroic  ring  about  the  very  name  of  Haldin.  They 
must  have  been  trembling  with  fear  in  their  ministries 
— all  those  men  with  fiendish  hearts.  Here  I  stand, 
talking  to  you,  and  when  I  think  of  all  the  cruelties, 
oppressions,  and  injustices  that  are  going  on  at  this 
very  moment,  my  head  begins  to  swim.  I  have  looked 
closely  at  what  would  seem  inconceivable  if  one's  own 
eyes  had  not  to  be  trusted.  I  have  looked  at  things 
that  made  me  hate  myself  for  my  helplessness.     I  hated 

153 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

my  hands  that  had  no  power,  my  voice  that  could  not 
be  heard,  my  very  mind  that  would  not  become  un- 
hinged.    Ah!   I  have  seen  things.     And  you?" 

Miss  Haldin  was  moved.     She  shook  her  head  slightly. 

**  No,  I  have  seen  nothing  for  myself  as  yet,"  she 
murmured.  "  We  have  always  lived  in  the  country. 
It  was  my  brother's  wish." 

"It  is  a  curious  meeting,  this,  between  you  and  me," 
continued  the  other.  '*Do  you  believe  in  chance.  Miss 
Haldin?  How  could  I  have  expected  to  see  you,  his 
sister,  with  my  own  eyes  ?  Do  you  know  that  when  the 
news  came  the  revolutionaries  here  were  as  much  sur- 
prised as  pleased,  every  bit.  No  one  seemed  to  know 
anything  about  your  brother.  Peter  Ivanovitch  him- 
self had  not  foreseen  that  such  a  blow  was  going  to  be 
struck.  I  suppose  your  brother  was  simply  inspired.  I 
myself  think  that  such  deeds  should  be  done  by  in- 
spiration. It  is  a  great  privilege  to  have  the  inspiration 
and  the  opportunity.  Did  he  resemble  you  at  all? 
Don't  you  rejoice.  Miss  Haldin?" 

"You  must  not  expect  too  much  from  me,"  said  Miss 
Haldin,  repressing  an  inclination  to  cry,  which  came 
over  her  suddenly.  She  succeeded,  then  added,  calmly: 
"I  am  not  a  heroic  person!" 

"  You  think  you  couldn't  have  done  such  a  thing  your- 
self, perhaps?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  must  not  even  ask  myself  till  I 
have  lived  a  little  longer,  seen  more.  ..." 

The  other  moved  her  head  appreciatively.  The  purr- 
ing of  the  cat  had  a  loud  complacency  in  the  empty  hall. 
No  sound  of  voices  came  from  up-stairs.  Miss  Haldin 
broke  the  silence. 

"What  is  it  precisely  that  you  heard  people  say  about 
my  brother?  You  said  that  they  were  surprised.  Yes, 
I  suppose  they  were.  Did  it  not  seem  strange  to  them 
that  my  brother  should  have  failed  to  save  himself  after 
th^  most  difficult  part — that  is,  getting  away  from  the 

154 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

spot — was  over?  Conspirators  should  understand  these 
things  well.  There  are  reasons  why  I  am  very  anxious 
to  know." 

The  dame  de  compagnie  had  advanced  to  the  open  hall 
door.  She  glanced  rapidly  over  her  shoulder  at  Miss 
Haldin,  who  remained  within  the  hall. 

" Succeed  to  escape  V  she  repeated,  absently.  "Didn't 
he  make  the  sacrifice  of  his  life?  Wasn't  he  just  simply 
inspired?  Wasn't  it  an  act  of  abnegation ?  Aren't  you 
certain?" 

"What  I  am  certain  of,"  said  Miss  Haldin,  "is  that 
it  was  not  an  act  of  despair.  Have  you  not  heard  some 
opinion  expressed  here  upon  his  miserable  capture?" 

The  dame  de  compagnie  mused  for  a  while  in  the  door- 
way. 

"Did  I  hear?  Of  course,  everything  is  discussed 
here.  Has  not  all  the  world  been  speaking  about  your 
brother  ?  For  my  part,  the  mere  mention  of  his  achieve- 
ment plunges  me  into  an  envious  ecstasy.  Why  should 
a  man  certain  of  immortality  think  of  his  life  at  all?" 

She  kept  her  back  turned  to  Miss  Haldin.  Up-stairs 
from  behind  a  great,  dingy,  white-and-gold  door,  visible 
behind  the  balustrade  of  the  first-floor  landing,  a  deep 
voice  began  to  drone  formally,  as  if  reading  over  notes 
or  something  of  the  sort.  It  paused  frequently  and 
then  ceased  altogether. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  stay  any  longer,"  said  Miss 
Haldin.     "I  will  return  another  day." 

She  waited  for  the  dame  de  compagnie  to  make  room 
for  her  exit,  but  that  last  did  not  move.  She  appeared 
lost  in  the  contemplation  of  sunshine  and  shadows, 
sharing  between  themselves  the  stillness  of  the  deserted 
grounds.  She  concealed  the  view  of  the  drive  from  Miss 
Haldin.     Suddenly  she  said: 

"It  is  not  necessary;  here  is  Peter  Ivanovitch  him- 
self coming  up.  But  he  is  not  alone.  He  is  seldom 
alone  now." 

155 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Hearing  that  Peter  Ivanovitch  was  approaching,  Miss 
Haldin  was  not  so  pleased  as  she  might  have  been  ex- 
pected to  be.     Somehow  vShe  had  lost  the  desire  to  see 

either  the  heroic  captive  or  Mme.  de  S ,  and  the 

reason  of  that  shrinking  which  came  upon  her  at  the 
very  last  minute  is  accounted  for  by  the  feeling  that 
those  two  people  had  not  been  treating  the  woman  with 
the  cat  kindly. 

"Would  you  please  let  me  pass?"  said  Miss  Haldin, 
at  last,  touching  lightly  the  shoulder  of  the  dame  de 
compagnie. 

But  the  other,  pressing  the  cat  to  her  breast,  did  not 
budge. 

"I  know  who  it  is  with  him,"  she  said,  without  even 
looking  back.  More  unaccountably  than  ever,  Miss 
Haldin  felt  a  strong  impulse  to  leave  the  house. 

"Madame  de  S may  be  engaged  for  some  time 

yet,  and  what  I  have  got  to  say  to  Peter  Ivanovitch  is 
just  a  simple  question  which  I  might  put  to  him  when 
I  meet  him  in  the  grounds  on  my  way  down.  I  really 
think  I  will  go.  I  have  been  some  time  here,  and  I  am 
anxious  to  get  back  to  my  mother.  Will  you  let  me 
pass,  please?" 

The  dame  de  compagnie  turned  her  head  at  last. 

"I  never  supposed  that  you  really  wanted  to  see 

Madame  de  S ,"  she  said,  with  unexpected  insight. 

**  Not  for  a  moment."  There  was  something  confidential 
and  mysterious  in  her  tone.  She  passed  through  the 
door,  with  Miss  Haldin  following  her,  on  to  the  terrace, 
and  they  descended,  side  by  side,  the  moss-grown  stone 
steps.  There  was  no  one  to  be  seen  on  such  stretches 
of  the  drive  as  were  visible  from  the  front  of  the  house. 

"They  are  hidden  by  the  trees  over  there,"  explained 
Miss  Haldin's  new  acquaintance,  "but  you  shall  see 
them  directly.  I  don't  know  who  that  young  man  is 
to  whom  Peter  Ivanovitch  has  taken  such  a  fancy.  He 
must  be  one  of  us,  or  he  would  not  be  admitted  here 

156 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

when  the  others  come.  You  know  who  I  mean  by  the 
others.  But  I  must  say  that  he  is  not  at  all  mystically 
inclined.  I  don't  know  that  I  have  made  him  out  yet. 
Naturally  I  am  never  for  very  long  in  the  drawing-room. 
There  is  always  something  for  me  to  do,  though  the 
establishment  here  is  not  so  extensive  as  the  villa  on 
the  Riviera.  But  still,  there  are  plenty  of  opportunities 
for  me  to  make  myself  useful." 

To  the  left,  passing  by  the  ivy-grown  end  of  the 
stables,  appeared  Peter  Ivanovitch  and  his  companion. 
They  walked  very  slowly,  conversing  with  some  anima- 
tion, and  just  then  they  even  stopped  for  a  moment, 
and  Peter  Ivanovitch  was  seen  to  gesticulate,  while 
the  young  man  listened  motionless,  with  his  arms 
hanging  down  and  his  head  bowed  a  little.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  dark-gray  suit  and  a  black  hat.  The  round 
eyes  of  the  dame  de  compagnie  remained  fixed  on  the 
two  figures,  which  had  resumed  their  leisurely  ap- 
proach. 

"An  extremety  polite  young  man,"  she  said.  "You 
shall  see  what  a  bow  he  will  make;  and  it  won't  alto- 
gether be  so  exceptional,  either.  He  bows  in  the  same 
way  when  he  meets  me  alone  in  the  hall." 

She  moved  on  a  few  steps,  with  Miss  Haldin  by  her 
side,  and  things  happened  just  as  she  had  foretold.  The 
young  man  took  off  his  hat,  bowed  and  fell  back,  while 
Peter  Ivanovitch  advanced  quicker,  his  black,  thick 
arms  extended,  heartily,  and  seized  hold  of  both  Miss 
Haldin' s  hands,  shook  them,  and  peered  at  her  through 
his  dark  glasses. 

"That's  right,  that's  right!"  he  exclaimed  twice,  ap- 
provingly. "  And  so  you  have  been  looked  after  by  .  .  ." 
He  frowned  slightly  at  the  dame  de  compagnie,  who  was 
still  nursing  the  cat.     "I  conclude  Eleanor — Madame 

de  S is  engaged.     I  know  she  expected  somebody 

to-day.  So  the  newspaper  man  did  turn  up,  eh?  She 
is  engaged?" 

157 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

For  all  answer  the  dame  de  compagnie  turned  away  her 
head. 

"It  is  very  unfortunate — very  unfortunate,  indeed. 
I  very  much  regret  that  you  should  have  been  ..." 
He  lowered  suddenly  his  voice.  "But  what  is  it — 
surely  you  are  not  departing,  Natalia  Viktorovna? 
You  got  bored  waiting,  didn't  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  Miss  Haldin  protested.  "Only  I 
have  been  here  some  time,  and  I  am  anxious  to  get  back 
to  my  mother." 

"The  time  seemed  long,  eh?  I  am  afraid  our  worthy 
friend  here"  (Peter  Ivanovitch  suddenly  jerked  his 
head  sideways  toward  his  right  shoulder  and  jerked  it 
up  again),  "our  worthy  friend  here  had  not  the  art  of 
shortening  the  moments  of  waiting.  No,  distinctly  she 
has  not  the  art ;  and  in  that  respect  good  intentions  alone 
count  for  nothing." 

The  dame  de  compagnie  dropped  her  arms,  and  the  cat 
found  itself  suddenly  on  the  ground.  It  remained  quite 
still  after  alighting,  one  hind  leg  stretched  backward. 
Miss  Haldin  was  extremely  indignant  on  behalf  of  the 
lady  companion. 

"Believe  me,  Peter  Ivanovitch,  that  the  moments  I 
have  passed  in  the  hall  of  this  house  have  been  not  a 
little  interesting  and  very  instructive,  too.  They  are 
memorable.  I  do  not  regret  the  waiting,  but  I  see  that 
the  object  of  my  call  here  can  be  attained  without 
taking  up  Madame  de  S 's  time." 

At  this  point  I  interrupted  Miss  Haldin.  The  above 
relation  is  founded  on  her  narrative,  which  I  have  not 
so  much  dramatized  as  might  be  supposed.  She  had 
rendered  with  extraordinary  feeling  and  animation  the 
very  accent  almost  of  the  disciple  of  the  old  apple- 
woman,  the  irreconcilable  hater  of  ministries,  the  vol- 
untary servant  of  the  poor.  Miss  Haldin's  true  and 
delicate  humanity  was  extremely  shocked  by  the  un- 
congenial fate  of  her  new  acquaintance,  that  lady  com- 

158 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

panion,  secretary,  whatever  she  was.  For  my  own  part, 
I  was  pleased  to  discover  in  it  one  more  obstacle  to  in- 
timacy with  Mme.  de  S .  I  had  a  positive  abhor- 
rence for  the  painted,  bedizened  dead-faced,  glassy-eyed 
Egeria  of  Peter  Ivanovitch.  I  do  not  know  what  was 
her  attitude  to  the  unseen,  but  I  know  that  in  the  affairs 
of  this  world  she  was  avaricious,  greedy,  and  unscrupu- 
lous. It  was  within  my  knowledge  that  she  had  been 
worsted  in  a  sordid  and  desperate  quarrel  about  money 
matters  with  the  family  of  her  late  husband,  the  diplo- 
matist. Some  very  august  personages,  indeed  (whom 
in  her  fury  she  had  insisted  upon  scandalously  involv- 
ing in  her  affairs),  had  incurred  her  animosity.  I  find  it 
perfectly  easy  to  believe  that  she  had  come  to  within 
an  ace  of  being  spirited  away,  for  reasons  of  state,  into 
some  discreet  maison  de  sanU — a  madhouse  of  sorts,  to 
be  plain.  It  appears,  however,  that  certain  high-placed 
personages  opposed  it  for  reasons  which  .  .  . 

But  it's  no  use  to  go  into  details. 

Wonder  may  be  expressed  at  a  man  in  the  position 
of  a  teacher  of  languages  knowing  all  this  with  such 
definiteness.  A  novelist  says  this  and  that  of  his  per- 
sonages, and,  if  only  he  knows  how  to  say  it  earnestly 
enough,  he  may  not  be  questioned  upon  the  inventions 
of  his  brain  in  which  his  own  belief  is  made  sufficiently 
manifest  by  a  telling  phrase,  a  poetic  image,  the  accent 
of  emotion.     Art  is  great!     But  I  have  no  art,  and  not 

having  invented  Mme.  de  S ,  I  feel  bound  to  explain 

how  I  came  to  know  so  much  about  her. 

My  informant  was  the  Russian  wife  of  a  friend  of 
mine,  already  mentioned,  the  professor  of  Lausanne 
University.     It  was  from  her  that  I  learned  the  last 

fact  of  Mme.  de  S 's  history  with  which  I  intend  to 

trouble  my  readers.  She  told  me,  speaking  positively, 
as  a  person  who  trusts  her  sources,  of  the  cause  of  Mme. 

de  S 's  flight  from  Russia  some  years  before.     It 

was  neither  more  nor  less  than  this:   that  she  became 

159 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

suspect  to  the  police  in  connection  with  the  assassina- 
tion of  the  Emperor  Alexander.  The  ground  of  this 
suspicion  was  either  some  unguarded  expressions  that 
escaped  her  in  public,  or  some  talk  overheard  in  her 
salon.  Overheard  we  must  believe  by  some  guest,  per- 
haps a  friend,  who  hastened  to  play  the  informer,  I  sup- 
pose. At  any  rate,  the  overheard  matter  seemed  to 
imply  her  foreknowledge  of  that  event,  and  I  think  she 
was  wise  in  not  waiting  for  the  investigation  of  such  a 
charge.  Some  of  my  readers  may  remember  a  little 
book  from  her  pen,  published  in  Paris,  a  mystically  bad- 
tempered,  declamatory,  and  frightfully  disconnected 
piece  of  writing,  in  which  she  all  but  admits  the  fore- 
knowledge, more  than  hints  at  its  supernatural  origin, 
and  plainly  suggests  in  venomous  inntfendoes  that  the 
guilt  of  the  act  was  not  with  the  terrorists,  but  with  a 
palace  intrigue.     When   I   observed  to  my  friend,  the 

professor's  wife,  that  the  life  of  Mme.  de  S ,  with  its 

unofficial  diplomacy,  its  intrigues,  lawsuits,  favors,  dis- 
grace, expulsions,  its  atmosphere  of  scandal,  occultism, 
and  charlatanism,  was  more  fit  for  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury than  for  the  conditions  of  our  own  time,  she  as- 
sented with  a  smile,  but  a  moment  after  went  on  in 
a  reflective  tone:  "Charlatanism? — yes,  in  a  certain 
measure.  Still,  the  times  are  changed.  There  are 
forces  now  which  were  non-existent  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  she  were  more 
dangerous  than  an  Englishman  would  be  willing  to  be- 
lieve. And,  what's  more,  she  is  looked  upon  as  really 
dangerous  by  certain  people — chez  nous.'* 

Chez  nous,  in  this  connection,  meant  Russia  in  general, 
and  the  Russian  political  police  in  particular.  The  ob- 
ject of  my  digression  from  the  straight  course  of  Miss 
Haldin's  relation  (in  my  own  words)  of  her  visit  to  the 
Chateau  Borel  was  to  bring  forward  that  statement  of 
my  friend,  the  professor's  wife.  I  wanted  to  bring  it  for- 
ward simply  to  make  what  I  have  to  say  presently  of 

i6o 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Mr.  Razumov's  presence  in  Geneva  a  little  more  credible 
— for  this  is  a  Russian  story  for  Western  ears,  which,  as  I 
have  observed  already,  are  not  attuned  to  certain  tones 
of  cynicism  and  cruelty  of  moral  negation,  and  even  of 
moral  distress  already  silenced  at  our  end  of  Europe. 
And  this  I  state  as  my  excuse  for  having  left  Miss  Haldin 
standing,  one  of  the  little  group  of  two  women  and  two 
men  who  had  come  together  below  the  terrace  of  the 
Chateau  Borel. 

The  knowledge  which  I  have  stated  above  was  in  my 
mind  when,  as  I  have  said,  I  interrupted  Miss  Haldin.  I 
interrupted  her  with  the  cry  of  profound  satisfaction. 

**So,  you  never  saw  Madame  de  S ,  after  all?" 

Miss  Haldin  shook  her  head.     It  was  very  satisfactory 

to  me.     She  had  not  seen  Mme.  de  S !     That  was 

excellent,   excellent!     I   welcomed  the  conviction   that 

she  would  never   know  Mme.  de  S now.     I  could 

not  explain  the  reason  of  the  conviction  but  by  the 
knowledge  that  Miss,  Haldin  was  standing  face  to  face 
with  her  brother's  wonderful  friend.     I  preferred  him  to 

Mme.  de   S as  the  companion  and  guide  of  that 

young  girl,  abandoned  to  her  inexperience  by  the  mis- 
erable end  of  her  brother.  But,  at  any  rate,  that  life 
now  ended  had  been  sincere,  and  perhaps  its  thought 
might  have  been  lofty,  its  moral  sufferings  profound,  its 
last  act  a  true  sacrifice.  It  is  not  for  us,  the  staid 
lovers  calmed  by  the  possession  of  a  conquered  liberty, 
to  condemn  without  appeal  the  fierceness  of  thwarted 
desire. 

I  am  not  ashamed  of  the  warmth  of  my  regard  for 
Miss  Haldin.  It  was,  it  must  be  admitted,  an  unselfish 
sentiment,  being  its  own  reward.  The  late  Victor  Haldin 
— in  the  light  of  that  sentiment — appeared  to  me  not  as  a 
sinister  conspirator,  but  as  a  pure  enthusiast.  I  did  not 
wish,  indeed,  to  judge  him,  but  the  very  fact  that  he 
did  hot  escape,  that  fact  which  brought  so  much  trouble 
to  both  his  mother  and  his  sister,  spoke  to  me  in  his 

i6i 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

favor.  Meantime,  in  my  fear  of  seeing  the  girl  surrender 
to  the  influence  of  the  Chateau  Borel  revolutionary 
feminism,  I  was  more  than  willing  to  put  my  trust  in  that 
friend  of  the  late  Victor  Haldin.  He  was  nothing  but  a 
name,  you  will  say.  Exactly!  A  name!  And,  what's 
more,  the  only  name ;  the  only  name  to  be  found  in  the 
correspondence  between  brother  and  sister.  The  young 
man  had  turned  up;  they  had  come  face  to  face,  and, 
fortunately,  without  the  direct  interference  of  Mme.  de 

S .     What  will  come  of  it?   what  will  she  tell  me 

presently?  I  was  asking  myself. 

It  was  only  natural  that  my  thought  should  turn  to 
the  young  man,  the  bearer  of  the  only  name  uttered  in 
all  the  dream-talk  of  a  future  to  be  brought  about  by  a 
revolution.  And  my  thought  took  the  shape  of  asking 
myself  why  this  young  man  had  not  called  upon  these 
ladies.  He  had  been  in  Geneva  for  some  days  before 
Miss  Haldin  heard  of  him  first  in  my  presence  from 
Peter  Ivanovitch.  I  regretted  his  presence  at  their 
meeting.  I  would  rather  have  had  it  happen  somewhere 
out  of  his  spectacled  sight.  But  I  supposed  that,  hav- 
ing both  these  young  people  there,  he  introduced  them 
to  each  other. 

I  broke  the  silence  by  beginning  a  question  on  that 
point. 

**I  suppose  Peter  Ivanovitch  ..." 

Miss  Haldin  gave  vent  to  her  indignation.  Peter 
Ivanovitch,  directly  he  had  got  his  answer  from  her,  had 
turned  upon  the  dame  de  compagnie  in  a  shameful  manner. 

"Turned  upon  her?"  I  wondered.  "What  about? 
For  what  reason?" 

"It  was  unheard  of;  it  was  shameful,"  Miss  Haldin 
pursued,  with  angry  eyes.  "//  lui  a  fait  une  scene — like 
this,  before  strangers.  And  for  what  ?  You  would  never 
guess.     For  some  eggs.  .  .  .  Oh!" 

I  was  astonished.     "Eggs,  did  you  say?" 

"  For  Madame  de  S .     That  lady  observes  a  special 

162 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

diet,  or  something  of  the  sort.  It  seems  she  had  com- 
plained the  day  before  to  Peter  Ivanovitch  that  the  eggs 
were  not  rightly  prepared.  Peter  Ivanovitch  suddenly 
remembered  this  against  the  poor  woman,  and  flew  out 
at  her.     It  was  most  astonishing.     I  stood  as  if  rooted." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  great  feminist  allowed 
himself  to  be  abusive  to  a  woman?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  not  that!  It  was  something  you  have  no  con- 
ception of.  It  was  an  odious  performance.  Imagine, 
he  raised  his  hat  to  begin  with.  He  made  his  voice  soft 
and  deprecatory.  *  Ah !  you  are  not  kind  to  us — you  will 
not  deign  to  remember  .  .  .'  This  sort  of  phrases,  that 
sort  of  tone.  The  poor  creature  was  terribly  upset.  Her 
eyes  ran  full  of  tears.  She  did  not  know  where  to  look. 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  would  have  rather  preferred 
abuse,  or  even  a  blow." 

I  did  not  remark  that  very  possibly  she  was  familiar 
with  both  on  occasions  when  no  one  was  by.  Miss 
Haldin  walked  by  my  side,  her  head  up  in  scornful  and 
angry  silence. 

"Great  men  have  their  surprising  peculiarities,"  I 
observed,  inanely.  "Exactly  like  men  who  are  not 
great.  But  that  sort  of  thing  cannot  be  kept  up  for- 
ever. How  did  the  great  feminist  wind  up  this  very 
characteristic  episode?" 

Miss  Haldin,  without  turning  her  face  my  way,  told 
me  that  the  end  was  brought  about  by  the  appearance 
of  the  interviewer,  who  had  been  closeted  with  Mme. 
de  S . 

He  came  up  rapidly,  unnoticed,  lifted  his  hat  slightly, 
and  paused  to  say  in  French:  "The  Baroness  has  asked 
me,  in  case  I  met  a  lady  on  my  way  out,  to  desire  her  to 
come  in  at  once." 

After  delivering  this  message,  he  hurried  down  the 
drive.  The  dame  de  compagnie  flew  toward  the  house, 
and  Peter  Ivanovitch  followed  her  hastily,  looking 
uneasy.    In  a  moment  Miss  Haldin  found  herself  alone 

J  63 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

with  the  young  man,  who  undoubtedly  must  have  been 
the  new  arrival  from  Russia.  She  wondered  whether 
her  brother's  friend  had  not  already  guessed  who  she 
was. 

I  am  in  a  position  to  say  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  had  guessed.  It  is  clear  to  me  that  Peter  Ivanovitch 
for  some  reason  or  other  had  refrained  from  alluding  to 
these  ladies'  presence  in  Geneva.  But  Razumov  had 
guessed.  The  trustful  girl!  Every  word  uttered  by 
Haldin  lived  in  Razumov' s  memory.  They  were  like 
haunting  shapes;  they  could  not  be  exorcised.  The 
most  vivid  among  them  was  the  mention  of  the  sister. 
The  girl  had  existed  for  him  ever  since.  But  he  did  not 
recognize  her  at  once.  Coming  up  with  Peter  Ivano- 
vitch, he  did  not  observe  her;  their  eyes  had  met  even. 
He  had  responded,  as  no  one  could  help  responding  to 
the  harmonious  charm  of  her  whole  person,  its  strength, 
its  grace,  its  tranquil  frankness — and  then  he  had  turned 
his  gaze  away.  He  said  to  himself  that  all  this  was  not 
for  him;  the  beauty  of  women  and  the  friendship  of 
men  were  not  for  him.  He  accepted  that  feeling  with 
a  purposeful  sternness,  and  tried  to  pass  on.  It  was 
only  her  outstretched  hand  which  brought  about  the 
recognition.  It  stands  recorded  in  the  pages  of  his 
self-confession  that  it  nearly  suffocated  him  physically 
with  an  emotional  reaction  of  hate  and  dismay,  as 
though  her  appearance  had  been  a  piece  of  accomplished 
treachery. 

He  faced  about.  The  considerable  elevation  of  the 
terrace  concealed  them  from  any  one  lingering  in  the 
doorway  of  the  house;  and  even  from  the  up-stairs 
windows  they  could  not  have  been  seen.  Through  the 
thickets,  run  wild,  and  the  trees  of  the  gently  sloping 
grounds  he  had  cold,  placid  glimpses  of  the  lake.  A 
moment  of  perfect  privacy  had  been  vouchsafed  to  them 
at  this  juncture.  I  wondered  to  myself  what  use  they 
had  made  of  that  fortunate  circumstance. 

164 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Did  you  have  time  for  more  than  a  few  words?"  I 
asked. 

That  animation  with  which  she  had  related  to  me  the 
incidents  of  her  visit  to  the  Chateau  Borel  had  left  her 
completely.  Strolling  by  my  side  she  looked  straight 
before  her;  but  I  noticed  a  little  color  on  her  cheek. 
She  did  not  answer  me. 

After  some  little  time  I  observed  that  they  could  not 
have  hoped  to  remain  forgotten  for  very  long,  unless 

the  other  two  had  discovered  Mme.  de  S swooning 

with  fatigue,  perhaps,  or  in  a  state  of  morbid  exaltation 
after  the  long  interview.  Either  would  require  their 
devoted  ministrations.  I  could  depict  to  myself  Peter 
Ivanovitch  rushing  busily  out  of  the  house  again,  bare- 
headed, perhaps,  and  on  across  the  terrace  with  his 
swinging  gait,  the  black  skirts  of  the  frock-coat  floating 
clear  of  his  stout,  light-gray  legs.  I  confess  to  having 
looked  upon  these  young  people  as  the  quarry  of  the 
"heroic  fugitive."  I  had  the  notion  that  they  would 
not  be  allowed  to  escape  capture.  But  of  that  I  said 
nothing  to  Miss  Haldin,  only  as  she  still  remained  un- 
communicative, I  pressed  her  a  little. 

"Well — but  you  can  tell  me  at  least  your  impression." 

She  turned  her  head  to  look  at  me,  and  turned  away 
again. 

"Impression?"  she  repeated  slowly,  almost  dreamily; 
then,  in  a  quicker  tone: 

"He  seems  to  be  a  man  who  has  suffered  more  from 
his  thoughts  than  from  evil  fortune." 

"From  his  thoughts,  you  say?" 

"And  that  is  natural  enough  in  a  Russian,"  she 
took  me  up.  "In  a  young  Russian;  so  many  of  them 
are  unfit  for  action  and  yet  unable  to  rest." 

"And  you  think  he  is  that  sort  of  man?" 

" No,  I  do  not  judge  him.  How  could  I,  so  suddenly? 
You  asked  for  my  impression — I  explain  my  impression. 
I — I — don't  know  the  world  nor  yet  the  people  in  it; 

i6s 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

I  have  been  too  solitary — I  am  too  young  to  trust  my 
own  opinions." 

** Trust  your  instinct,"  I  advised  her.  "Most  women 
trust  to  that  and  make  no  worse  mistakes  than  men. 
In  this  case  you  have  your  brother's  letter  to  help  you." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  like  a  light  sigh. 

**  Unstained,  lofty,  and  solitary  existences,"  she  quoted 
as  if  to  herself.  But  I  caught  the  wistful  murmur 
distinctly. 

"High  praise,"  I  whispered  to  her. 

"The  highest  possible." 

"So  high  that,  like  the  award  of  happiness,  it  is  more 
fit  to  come  only  at  the  end  of  a  life.  But  still  no  common 
or  altogether  unworthy  personality  could  have  suggested 
such  a  confident  exaggeration  of  praise  and  ..." 

"Ah!"  She  interrupted  me  ardently.  "And  if  you 
had  only  known  the  heart  from  which  that  judgment  has 
come!" 

She  ceased  on  that  note,  and  for  a  space  I  reflected  on 
the  character  of  the  words  which  I  perceived  very  well 
must  tip  the  scale  of  the  girl's  feelings  in  that  young 
man's  favor.  They  had  not  the  sound  of  a  casual  utter- 
ance. Vague  they  were  to  my  Western  mind  and  to  my 
Western  sentiment,  but  I  could  not  forget  that,  standing 
by  Miss  Haldin's  side,  I  was  like  a  traveler  in  a  strange 
country.  It  had  also  become  clear  to  me  that  Miss 
Haldin  was  unwilling  to  enter  into  the  details  of  the  only 
material  part  of  her  visit  to  the  Chateau  Borel.  But  I 
was  not  hurt.  Somehow  I  didn't  feel  it  to  be  a  want  of 
confidence.  It  was  some  other  difficulty — a  difficulty  I 
could  not  resent.  And  it  was  without  the  slightest  re- 
sentment that  I  said : 

"  Very  well.  But  on  that  high  ground  which  I  will  not 
dispute,  you,  like  any  one  else  in  such  circumstances — 
you  must  have  made  for  yourself  a  representation  of  that 
exceptional  friend,  a  mental  image  of  him,  and — please 
tell  me — you  were  not  disappointed?" 

i66 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"What  do  you  mean?     His  personal  appearance?" 

"I  don't  mean  precisely  his  good  looks  or  otherwise." 

We  turned  at  the  end  of  the  alley  and  made  a  few 
steps  without  looking  at  each  other. 

**  His  appearance  is  not  ordinary,"  said  Miss  Haldin,  at 
last. 

"No,  I  should  have  thought  not  —  from  the  little 
you've  said  of  your  first  impression.  After  all,  one  has 
to  fall  back  on  that  word.  Impression!  What  I  mean 
is  that  something  indescribable  which  is  likely  to  mark 
a  'not  ordinary*  person." 

I  perceived  that  she  was  not  listening.  There  was  no 
mistaking  her  expression ;  and  once  more  I  had  the  sense 
of  being  out  of  it — not  because  of  my  age,  which,  at  any 
rate,  could  draw  inferences — but  altogether  out  of  it  on 
another  plane  whence  I  could  only  watch  her  from  afar. 
And  so,  ceasing  to  speak,  I  watched  her  stepping  out  by 
my  side. 

"No,"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly,  "I  could  not  have 
been  disappointed  with  a  man  of  such  strong  feeling." 

"Aha!  Strong  feeling,"  I  muttered,  thinking  to  my- 
self, censoriously:   "  Like  this,  at  once,  all  in  a  moment!" 

"What  did  you  say?"  inquired  Miss  Haldin,  inno- 
cently. 

"No,  nothmg.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Strong  feeling. 
I  am  not  surprised." 

"And  you  don't  know  how  abruptly  I  behaved  to 
him,"  she  cried,  remorsefully. 

I  suppose  I  must  have  appeared  surprised,  for,  looking 
at  me  with  a  still  more  heightened  color,  she  said  she  was 
ashamed  to  admit  that  she  had  not  been  sufficiently  col- 
lected; she  had  failed  to  control  her  words  and  actions 
as  the  situation  demanded.  She  lost  th«  fortitude 
worthy  of  both  the  men,  the  dead  and  the  living;  the 
fortitude  which  should  have  been  the  note  of  the  meeting 
of  Victor  Haldin's  sister  with  Victor  Haldin's  only  known 
friend.  He  was  looking  at  her  keenly,  but  said  nothing, 
12  167 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

and  she  was — she  confessed — painfully  affected  by  his 
want  of  comprehension.  All  she  could  say  was,  "You 
are  Mr.  Razumov."  At  this  a  slight  frown  passed  over 
his  forehead.  After  a  short,  watchful  pause  he  made  a 
little  bow  of  assent,  and  waited. 

At  the  thought  that  she  had  before  her  the  man  so 
highly  regarded  by  her  brother,  the  man  who  had  known 
his  value,  spoken  to  him,  understood  him,  had  listened 
to  his  confidences,  perhaps  had  encouraged  him,  her  lips 
trembled,  her  eyes  ran  full  of  tears;  she  put  out  her 
hand,  made  a  step  toward  him  impulsively,  saying,  with 
an  effort  to  restrain  her  emotion,  "Can't  you  guess  who 
I  am?"  He  did  not  take  the  proffered  hand.  He  even 
recoiled  a  pace,  and  Miss  Haldin  imagined  that  he  was 
unpleasantly  affected.  Miss  Haldin  excused  him,  di- 
recting her  displeasure  at  herself.  She  had  behaved  un- 
worthily, like  an  emotional  French  girl.  A  manifestation 
of  that  kind  could  not  be  welcomed  by  a  man  of  stern, 
self-contained  character. 

He  must  have  been  stern  indeed,  or  perhaps  very  timid 
with  women,  not  to  respond  in  a  more  human  way  to 
the  advances  of  a  girl  like  Nathalie  Haldin,  I  thought  to 
myself.  Those  lofty  and  solitary  existences  (I  remem- 
bered the  words  suddenly)  make  a  young  man  shy  and 
an  old  man  savage — often. 

"Well,"  I  encouraged  Miss  Haldin  to  proceed. 

She  was  still  very  dissatisfied  with  herself. 

"I  went  from  bad  to  worse,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of 
discouragement  very  foreign  to  her.  "I  did  everything 
foolish  except  actually  bursting  into  tears.  I  am  thank- 
ful to  say  I  did  not  do  that.  But  I  was  unable  to  speak 
for  quite  a  long  time." 

She  had  stood  before  him,  speechless,  swallowing  her 
sobs,  and  when  she  managed  at  last  to  utter  something 
it  was  only  her  brother's  name — "Victor — Victor  Hal- 
din," she  gasped  out,  and  again  her  voice  failed  her. 

"Of  course,"  she  commented  to  me,  "this  distressed 

i68 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

him.  He  was  quite  overcome.  I  have  told  you  my 
opinion  that  he  is  a  man  of  deep  feeHng — it  is  impossible 
to  doubt  it.  You  should  have  seen  his  face.  He  posi- 
tively reeled.  He  leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  terrace. 
Their  friendship  must  have  been  a  very  brotherhood  of 
souls!  I  was  grateful  to  him  for  that  emotion,  which 
made  me  feel  less  ashamed  of  my  own  lack  of  self-control. 
Of  course,  I  had  regained  the  power  of  speech  at  once, 
almost.  All  this  lasted  not  more  than  a  few  seconds. 
*I  am  his  sister,'  I  said.  'Maybe  you  have  heard  of 
me.'" 

"And  had  he?"  I  interrupted. 

"I  don't  know.  How  could  it  have  been  otherwise? 
And  yet  ...  But  what  does  that  matter?  I  stood  there 
before  him,  near  enough  to  be  touched  and  surely  not 
looking  like  an  impostor.  All  I  know  is,  that  he  put  out 
both  his  hands  then  to  me — I  may  say,  flung  them  out 
at  me  with  the  greatest  readiness  afid  warmth — and  that 
I  seized  and  pressed  them,  feeling  that  I  was  finding 
again  a  little  of  what  I  thought  was  lost  to  me  forever 
with  the  loss  of  my  brother — some  of  that  hope,  in- 
spiration, and  support  which  I  used  to  get  from  my 
dear  dead.  .  .  ." 

I  understood  quite  well  what  she  meant.  We  strolled 
on  slowly.  I  refrained  from  looking  at  her.  And  it  was 
as  if  answering  my  own  thoughts  that  I  murmured: 

"No  doubt  it  was  a  great  friendship  —  as  you  say. 
And  that  young  man  ended  by  welcoming  your  name, 
so  to  speak,  with  both  hands.  After  that,  of  course,  you 
would  understand  each  other.  Yes,  you  would  under- 
stand each  other  quickly." 

It  was  a  moment  before  I  heard  her  voice. 

"Mr.  Razumov  seems  to  be  a  man  of  few  words.  A 
reserved  man — even  when  he  is  strongly  moved." 

Unable  to  forget — or  even  to  forgive — the  bass-toned 
expansiveness  of  Peter  Ivanovitch,  the  archpatron  of 
revolutionary  parties,  I  said  that  I  took  that  for  a  favor- 

169 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

able  trait  of  character.  It  was  associated  with  sincerity 
— in  my  mind. 

"And,  besides,  we  had  not  much  time,"  she  added. 

"No,  you  would  not  have,  of  course."  My  suspicion 
and  even  dread  of  the  feminist  and  his  Egeria  was  so 
ineradicable  that  I  could  not  help  asking,  with  real 
anxiety,  which  I  made  smiling: 

"But  you  escaped  all  right?" 

She  understood  me,  and  smiled,  too,  at  my  uneasi- 
ness. 

"Oh  yes!  I  escaped,  if  you  like  to  call  it  that.  I 
walked  away  quickly.  There  was  no  need  to  run.  I 
am  neither  frightened  nor  yet  fascinated,  like  that  poor 
woman  who  received  me  so  strangely." 

"And  Mr. — Mr.  Razumov?  .  .  ." 

"He  remained  there,  of  course.  I  suppose  he  went 
into  the  house  after  I  left  him.  You  remember  that  he 
came  here  strongly  recommended  to  Peter  Ivanovitch — 
possibly  intrusted  with  important  messages  for  him." 

"Ah,  yes!     From  that  priest  who  .  .  ." 

"Father  Zosim — yes.     Or  from  others,  perhaps." 

"You  left  him,  then.  But  have  you  seen  him  since, 
may  I  ask?" 

For  some  time  Miss  Haldin  made  no  answer  to  this 
very  direct  question;  then: 

"I  have  been  expecting  to  see  him  here  to-day,"  she 
said,  quietly. 

"You  have!  Do  you  meet,  then,  in  this  garden?  In 
that  case  I  had  better  leave  you  at  once." 

"No,  why  leave  me?  And  we  don't  meet  in  this 
garden.  I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Razumov  since  that  first 
time.     Not  once.     But  I  have  been  expecting  him  ..." 

She  paused.  I  wondered  to  myself  why  that  young 
revolutionist  should  show  so  little  alacrity. 

"Before  we  parted  I  told  Mr.  Razumov  that  I  walked 
here  for  an  hour  every  day  at  this  time.  I  could  not 
explain  to  him  then  why  I  did  not  ask  him  to  come  and 

170 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

see  us  at  once.  Mother  must  be  prepared  for  such  a 
visit.  And  then,  you  see,  I  do  not  know  myself  what 
Mr.  Razumov  has  to  tell  us.  He,  too,  must  be  told  first 
how  it  is  with  poor  mother.  All  these  thoughts  flashed 
through  my  mind  at  once.  So  I  simply  told  him,  hur- 
riedly, that  there  was  a  reason  why  I  could  not  ask  him 
to  see  us  at  home,  but  that  I  was  in  the  habit  of  walking 
here.  .  .  .  This  is  a  public  place,  but  there  are  never  many 
people  about  at  this  hour.  I  thought  it  would  do  very 
well.  And  it  is  so  near  our  apartments.  I  don't  like 
to  be  very  far  away  from  mother.  Our  servant  knows 
where  I  am  in  case  I  should  be  wanted  suddenly." 

"Yes.  It  is  very  convenient  from  that  point  of 
view,"  I  agreed. 

In  fact,  I  thought  the  Bastions  a  very  convenient 
place,  since  the  girl  did  not  think  it  prudent  as  yet  to 
introduce  that  young  man  to  her  mother.  It  was  here, 
then,  I  thought,  looking  round  at  that  plot  of  ground 
of  deplorable  banality,  that  their  acquaintance  will  be- 
gin, and  go  on  in  the  exchange  of  generous  indignations 
and  of  extreme  sentiments,  too  poignant,  perhaps,  for 
a  non- Russian  mind  to  conceive.  I  saw  these  two, 
escaped  out  of  fourscore  of  millions  of  human  beings, 
ground  between  the  upper  and  nether  millstone,  walk- 
ing under  these  trees,  their  young  heads  close  together. 
Yes,  an  excellent  place  to  stroll  and  talk  in.  It  even 
occurred  to  me,  while  we  turned  once  more  away  from 
the  wide  iron  gates,  that,  when  tired,  they  would  have 
plenty  of  accommodation  to  rest  themselves.  There 
was  a  quantity  of  tables  and  chairs  displayed  between 
the  restaurant  chdlet  and  the  band-stand,  a  whole  raft 
of  painted  deals  spread  out  under  the  trees.  In  the 
very  middle  of  it  I  observed  a  solitary  Swiss  couple, 
whose  fate  was  made  secure  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave  by  the  perfected  mechanism  of  democratic  in- 
stitutions in  a  republic  that  could  almost  be  held  in  the 
palm  of  one's  hand.     The  man,  colorlessly  uncouth,  was 

171 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

drinking  beer  out  of  a  glittering  glass;  the  woman, 
rustic  and  placid,  leaning  back  in  the  rough  chair,  gazed 
idly  around. 

There  is  little  logic  to  be  expected  on  this  earth, 
not  only  in  the  matter  of  thought,  but  also  of  senti- 
ment. I  was  surprised  to  discover  myself  displeased 
with  that  unknown  young  man — a  week  had  gone  by 
since  they  met.  Was  he  callous,  or  shy,  or  very  stupid? 
I  could  not  make  it  out. 

"Do  you  think,"  I  asked  Miss  Haldin,  after  we  had 
gone  some  distance  up  the  great  alley,  "that  Mr.  Razu- 
mov  understood  your  intention?" 

"Understood  what  I  meant?"  she  wondered.  "He 
was  greatly  moved.  That  I  know!  In  my  own  agita- 
tion I  could  see  it.  But  I  spoke  distinctly.  He  heard 
me;    he  seemed,  indeed,  to  hang  on  my  words.  .  .  ." 

Unconsciously  she  had  hastened  her  pace.  Her  utter- 
ance, too,  became  quicker. 

I  waited  a  little  before  I  observed,  thoughtfully: 

"And  yet  he  allowed  all  these  days  to  pass?" 

"  How  can  we  tell  what  work  he  may  have  to  do 
here?  He  is  not  an  idler  traveling  for  his  pleasure. 
His  time  may  not  be  his  own  —  nor  yet  his  thoughts, 
perhaps." 

She  slowed  her  pace  suddenly,  and  in  a  lowered  voice, 
added : 

"Or  his  very  life" — then  paused  and  stood  still. 
"For  all  I  know  he  may  have  had  to  leave  Geneva  the 
very  day  he  saw  me." 

"Without  telling  you!"    I   exclaimed,   incredulously. 

"  I  did  not  give  him  time.  I  left  him  quite  abruptly. 
I  behaved  emotionally  to  the  end.  I  am  sorry  for  it. 
Even  if  I  had  given  him  the  opportunity,  he  would  have 
been  justified  in  taking  me  for  a  person  not  to  be  trusted. 
An  emotional,  tearful  girl  is  not  a  person  to  confide  in. 
But  even  if  he  has  left  Geneva  for  a  time,  I  am  con- 
fident that  we  shall  meet  again." 

172 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

**Ah!  You  are  confident  ...  I  dare  say.  But  on 
what  ground?" 

**  Because  I've  told  him  that  I  was  in  great  need  of 
some  one,  a  fellow-countryman,  a  fellow-believer,  to 
whom  I  could  give  my  confidence  in  a  certain  matter." 

"I  see.  I  don't  ask  you  what  answer  he  made.  I 
confess  that  this  is  good  ground  for  your  belief  in  Mr. 
Razumov's  appearance  before  long.  But  he  has  not 
turned  up  to-day?" 

"No!"  she  said,  quietly.  "Not  to-day."  And  we 
stood  for  a  time  in  silence  like  people  that  have  nothing 
more  to  say  to  each  other  and  let  their  thoughts  run 
widely  asunder  before  their  bodies  go  off  their  different 
ways.  Miss  Haldin  glanced  at  the  watch  on  her  wrist 
and  made  a  brusque  movement.  She  had  already  over- 
stayed her  time,  it  seemed. 

"  I  don't  like  to  be  away  from  mother,"  she  murmured, 
shaking  her  head.  "It  is  not  that  she  is  very  ill  now. 
But,  somehow,  when  I  am  not  with  her  I  am  more  un- 
easy than  ever." 

Mrs.  Haldin  had  not  made  the  slightest  allusion  to 
her  son  for  the  last  week  or  more.  She  sat,  as  usual, 
in  the  arm-chair  by  the  window  looking  out  silently 
on  that  hopeless  stretch  of  the  Boulevard  des  Philo- 
sophes.  When  she  spoke  a  few  lifeless  words,  it  was  of 
indifferent,  trivial  things. 

"  For  any  one  who  knows  what  the  poor  soul  is  think- 
ing of,  that  sort  of  talk  is  more  painful  than  her  silence. 
But  that  is  bad,  too;  I  can  hardly  endure  it,  and  I  dare 
not  break  it." 

Miss  Haldin  sighed,  refastening  a  button  of  her  glove 
which  had  come  undone.  I  knew  well  enough  what  a 
hard  time  of  it  she  must  be  having.  The  stress,  its 
causes,  its  character,  would  have  undermined  the  health 
of  an  Occidental  girl;  but  Russian  natures  have  a 
singular  power  of  resistance  against  the  unfair  strains 
of  life.     Straight  and  supple,  with  a  short  jacket  open 

173 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

on  her  black  dress,  which  made  her  figure  appear  more 
slender  and  her  fresh  but  colorless  face  more  pale,  she 
compelled  my  wonder  and  admiration. 

"I  can't  stay  a  moment  longer.  You  ought  to  come 
soon  to  see  mother.  You  know  she  calls  you  'L'ami.' 
It  is  an  excellent  name,  and  she  really  means  it.  And 
now  au  revoir,  I  must  run." 

She  glanced  vaguely  down  the  broad  walk — ^the  hand 
she  put  out  to  me  eluded  my  grasp  by  an  unexpected 
upward  movement  and  rested  upon  my  shoulder.  Her 
red  lips,  the  only  bit  of  color  she  had,  were  slightly 
parted,  not  in  a  smile,  however,  but  expressing  a  sort  of 
startled  pleasure.  She  gazed  toward  the  gates  and  said 
quickly,  with  a  gasp : 

"There!     I  knew  it.     Here  he  comes!" 

I  understood  that  she  must  mean  Mr.  Razumov.  A 
young  man  was  walking  up  the  alley  without  haste. 
His  clothes  were  some  dull  shade  of  brown,  and  he  car- 
ried a  stick.  When  my  eyes  first  fell  on  him  his  head 
was  hanging  on  his  breast  as  if  in  deep  thought.  While 
I  was  looking  at  him  he  raised  it  sharply,  and  at  once 
stopped.  I  am  certain  he  did,  but  that  pause  was 
nothing  more  perceptible  than  a  faltering  check  in  his 
gait,  instantaneously  overcome.  Then  he  continued  his 
approach,  looking  at  us  steadily.  Miss  Haldin  signed 
to  me  to  remain,  and  advanced  a  step  or  two  to  meet 
him. 

I  turned  my  head  away  from  that  meeting,  and  did 
not  look  at  them  again  till  I  heard  Miss  Haldin's  voice 
uttering  his  name  in  the  way  of  introduction.  Mr. 
Razumov  was  informed  in  a  warm,  low  tone  that,  be- 
sides being  a  wonderful  teacher,  I  was  a  great  support 
"in  our  sorrow  and  distress." 

Of  course,  I  was  described  also  as  an  Englishman. 
Miss  Haldin  spoke  rapidly,  faster  than  I  have  ever 
heard  her  speak,  and  that  by  contrast  made  the  quiet- 
ness of  her  eyes  more  expressive. 

174 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"  I  have  given  him  my  confidence,"  she  added,  looking 
all  the  time  at  Mr.  Razumov.  That  young  man  did 
indeed  rest  his  gaze  on  Miss  Haldin,  but  certainly  did 
not  look  into  her  eyes  that  were  so  ready  for  him. 
Afterward  he  glanced  backward  and  forward  at  us  both, 
while  the  faint  commencement  of  a  forced  smile,  fol- 
lowed by  the  suspicion  of  a  frown,  vanished  one  after 
the  other;  I  detected  them,  though  neither  could  have 
been  noticed  by  a  person  less  intensely  bent  upon  divin- 
ing him  than  myself.  I  don't  know  what  Nathalie  Haldin 
had  observed,  but  my  attention  seized  the  very  shades  of 
these  movements.  The  attempted  smile  was  given  up, 
the  incipient  frown  was  checked  and  smoothed  so  that 
there  should  be  no  sign ;  but  I  imagined  him  exclaiming, 
inwardly : 

**Her  confidence!  To  this  elderly  person — this  for- 
eigner!" 

I  imagined  this  because  he  looked  foreign  enough  to 
me.  I  was,  upon  the  whole,  favorably  impressed.  He 
had  an  air  of  intelligence  and  even  some  distinction 
quite  above  the  average  of  the  students  and  other 
inhabitants  of  the  Petite  Russie.  His  features  were 
more  decided  than  in  the  generality  of  Russian  faces; 
he  had  a  line  of  the  jaw,  a  clean-shaven,  sallow  cheek; 
his  nose  was  a  ridge  and  not  a  mere  protuberance.  His 
hat  was  well  down  over  his  eyes,  his  dark  hair  curled  low 
on  the  nape  of  his  neck;  in  the  ill-fitting  brown  clothes 
there  were  sturdy  limbs;  a  slight  stoop  brought  out  a 
satisfactory  breadth  of  shoulders.  Upon  the  whole,  I 
was  not  disappointed.     Studious — robust — shy.  ..." 

Before  Miss  Haldin  had  ceased  speaking  I  felt  the  grip 
of  his  hand  on  mine,  a  muscular,  firm  grip,  but  unex- 
pectedly hot  and  dry.  Not  a  word  or  even  a  mutter 
assisted  this  short  and  arid  handshake. 

I  intended  to  leave  them  to  themselves,  but  Miss 
Haldin  touched  me  lightly  on  the  forearm  with  a  sig- 
nificant contact,  conveying  a  distinct  wish.     Let  him 

175 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

smile  who  likes,  but  I  was  only  too  ready  to  stay  near 
Nathalie  Haldin,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  it 
was  no  smiling  matter  to  me.  I  stayed,  not  as  a  youth 
would  have  stayed,  uplifted,  as  it  were,  poised  in  the  air 
of  exultation,  but  soberly,  with  my  feet  on  the  ground 
and  my  mind  trying  to  penetrate  her  intention.  She 
had  turned  to  Mr.  Razumov. 

"Well.  This  is  the  place.  Yes,  it  is  here  that  I 
meant  you  to  come.  I  have  been  walking  every  day. 
.  .  .  Don't  excuse  yourself — I  understand.  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you  for  coming  to-day,  but  all  the  same  I  cannot 
stay  now.  It  is  impossible.  I  must  hurry  off  home. 
Yes,  even  with  you  standing  before  me,  I  must  run  off. 
I  have  been  too  long  away.  .  .  .  You  know  how  it  is?" 

These  last  words  were  addressed  to  me.  I  noticed 
that  Mr.  Razumov  passed  the  tip  of  his  tongue  over  his 
lips,  just  as  a  parched,  feverish  man  might  do.  He  took 
her  hand  in  its  black  glove,  which  closed  on  his  and 
held  it — detained  it,  quite  visibly  to  me,  against  a 
drawing-back  movement. 

"Thank  you  once  more  for — for  understanding  me," 
she  went  on,  warmly.  He  interrupted  her  with  a  cer- 
tain effect  of  roughness.  I  didn't  like  him  speaking  to 
this  frank  creature  so  much  from  under  the  brim  of  his 
hat,  as  it  were.  And  he'  produced  a  faint,  rasping  voice, 
quite  like  a  man  with  a  parched  throat. 

"What  is  there  to  thank  me  for?  Understand  you? 
.  .  .  How  did  I  understand  you?  .  .  .  You  had  better 
know  that  I  understand  nothing.  I  was  aware  that  you 
wanted  to  see  me  in  this  garden.  I  could  not  come 
before.  I  was  hindered.  And  even  to-day,  you  see  .  .  . 
late." 

She  still  held  his  hand. 

"I  can,  at  any  rate,  thank  you  for  not  dismissing  me 
from  your  mind  as  a  weak,  emotional  girl.  No  doubt  I 
want  sustaining;  I  am  very  ignorant.  But  I  can  be 
trusted.     Indeed  I  can!" 

176 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"You  are  ignorant,"  he  repeated,  thoughtfully.  He 
had  raised  his  head  and  was  looking  straight  into  her 
face  now,  while  she  held  his  hand.  They  stood  like  this 
for  a  long  moment.     She  released  his  hand. 

"Yes.  You  did  come  late.  It  was  good  of  you  to 
come  on  the  chance  of  me  having  loitered  beyond  my 
time.  I  was  talking  with  this  good  friend  here.  I  was 
talking  of  you.  Yes,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  of  you.  He 
was  with  me  when  I  first  heard  of  your  being  here  in 
Geneva.  He  can  tell  you  what  comfort  it  was  to  my 
bewildered  spirit  to  hear  that  news.  He  knew  I  meant 
to  seek  you  out.  It  was  the  only  object  of  my  accepting 
the  invitation  of  Peter  Ivanovitch  ..." 

"Peter  Ivanovitch  talked  to  you  of  me?"  he  inter- 
rupted, in  that  wavering,  hoarse  voice  which  suggested 
a  horribly  dry  throat. 

"Very  little.  Just  told  me  your  name  and  that  you 
had  arrived  here.  Why  should  I  have  asked  for  more? 
What  could  he  have  told  me  that  I  did  not  know  already 
from  my  brother's  letter?  Three  lines!  And  how 
much  they  meant  to  me!  I  will  show  them  to  you  one 
day,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch.  But  now  I  must  go.  The 
first  talk  between  us  cannot  be  a  matter  of  five  minutes, 
so  we  had  better  not  begin.  ..." 

I  had  been  standing  a  little  aside,  seeing  them  both  in 
profile.  At  that  moment  it  occurred  to  me  that  Mr. 
Razumov's  face  was  older  than  his  age. 

"If  mother" — the  girl  had  turned  suddenly  to  me — 
"were  to  wake  up  in  my  absence  (so  much  longer  than 
ub  /al),  she  would,  perhaps,  question  me.  She  seems  to 
miss  me  more,  you  know,  of  late.  She  would  want  to 
know  what  delayed  me — and,  you  see,  it  would  be  pain- 
ful for  me  to  dissemble  before  her." 

I  understood  the  point  very  well.  For  the  same  reason 
she  checked  what  seemed  to  be  on  Mr.  Razumov's  part  a 
movement  to  accompany  her. 

"No!  No!  I  go  alone,  but  meet  me  here  as  soon 
177 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

as    possible."      Then   to    me    in    a    lower,    significant 
tone: 

**  Mother  may  be  sitting  at  the  window  at  this  moment, 
looking  down  the  street.  She  must  not  know  anything 
of  Mr.  Razumov's  presence  here  till — till  something  is 
arranged."  She  paused  before  she  added,  a  little  louder, 
but  still  speaking  to  me:  "Mr.  Razumov  does  not  quite 
understand  my  difficulty,  but  you  know  what  it  is." 


WITH  a  quick  inclination  of  the  head  for  us  both, 
and  an  earnest,  friendly  glance  at  the  young  man, 
Miss  Haldin  left  us  covering  our  heads  and  looking 
after  her  straight,  supple  figure  receding  rapidly. 
Her  walk  was  not  that  hybrid  and  uncertain  gliding 
affected  by  some  women,  but  a  frank,  strong,  healthy 
movement  forward.  Rapidly  she  increased  the  distance 
— disappeared  with  suddenness  at  last.  I  discovered 
only  then  that  Mr.  Razumov,  after  ramming  his  hat 
well  over  his  brow,  was  looking  me  over  from  head  to 
foot.  I  dare  say  I  was  a  very  unexpected  fact  for 
that  young  Russian  to  stumble  upon.  I  caught  in 
his  physiognomy,  in  his  whole  bearing,  an  expression 
compounded  of  curiosity  and  scorn  tempered  by  alarm, 
as  though  he  had  been  holding  his  breath  while  I  was 
not  looking.  But  his  eyes  met  mine  with  a  gaze  direct 
enough.  I  saw  then  for  the  first  time  that  they  were 
of  a  clear  brown  color,  fringed  with  thick  black  eye- 
lashes. They  were  the  youngest  feature  of  his  face. 
Not  at  all  unpleasant  eyes.  He  swayed  slightly,  lean- 
ing on  his  stick  and  generally  hung  in  the  wind.  It 
flashed  upon  me  that  in  leaving  us  thus  together  Miss 
Haldin  had  an  intention  —  that  something  was  in- 
trusted to  me,  since  by  a  mere  accident  I  had  been  foimd 
at  hand.  On  this  assumed  ground  I  put  all  possible 
friendliness  into  my  manner. 

I  cast  about  for  some  right  thing  to  say,  and  suddenly 
in  Miss  Haldin's  last  words  I  perceived  the  clue  to  the 
nature  of  my  mission, 

179 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

**No,"  I  said,  gravely,  if  with  a  smile.  ''You  cannot 
be  expected  to  understand." 

His  clean-shaven  lip  quivered  ever  so  little  before  he 
said,  as  if  wickedly  amused: 

"But  haven't  you  heard  just  now?  I  was  thanked 
by  that  young  lady  for  understanding  so  well?" 

I  looked  at  him  rather  hard.  Was  there  a  hidden  and 
inexplicable  sneer  in  this  retort  ?  No.  It  was  not  that. 
It  might  have  been  resentment.  Yes.  But  what  had 
he  to  resent?  He  looked  as  though  he  had  not  slept 
very  well  of  late.  I  could  almost  feel  on  me  the  weight 
of  his  unrefreshed,  motionless  stare,  the  stare  of  a  man 
who  lies  unwinking  in  the  dark,  angrily  passive  in  the 
toils  of  disastrous  thoughts.  Now,  when  I  know  how 
true  it  was,  I  can  honestly  affirm  that  this  was  the 
effect  he  produced  on  me.  It  was  painful  in  a  curiously 
indefinite  way — for,  of  course,  the  definition  comes  to 
me  now  while  I  sit  writing  in  the  fullness  of  my  knowl- 
edge. But  this  is  what  the  effect  was  at  that  time  of 
absolute  ignorance.  This  new  sort  of  uneasiness,  which 
he  seemed  to  be  forcing  upon  me,  I  attempted  to  put 
down  by  assuming  a  conversational,  easy  familiarity. 

"That  extremely  charming  and  essentially  admirable 
young  girl  (I  am — as  you  see — old  enough  to  be  frank 
in  my  expressions)  was  referring  to  her  own  feelings. 
Surely  you  must  have  understood  that  much?" 

He  made  such  a  brusque  movement  that  he  even 
tottered  a  little. 

"Must  understand  this!  Not  expected  to  understand 
that!  I  may  have  other  things  to  do.  And  the  girl  is 
charming  and  admirable.  Well — and  if  she  is!  I  sup- 
pose I  can  see  that  for  myself." 

This  sally  would  have  been  insulting  if  his  voice  had 
not  been  practically  extinct,  dried  up  in  his  throat ;  and 
the  rustling  effort  of  his  speech  too  painful  to  give 
real  offence. 

I  remained  silent,  checked  between  the  obvious  fact 

i8o 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

and  the  subtle  impression.  It  was  open  to  me  to  leave 
him  there  and  then;  but  the  sense  of  having  been  in- 
trusted with  a  mission,  the  suggestion  of  Miss  Haldin's 
last  glance,  was  strong  upon  me.  After  a  moment  of 
reflection  I  said: 

"Shall  we  walk  together  a  little?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  so  violently  that  he  tot- 
tered again.  I  saw  it  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye  as  I 
moved  on,  with  him  at  my  elbow.  He  had  fallen  back 
a  little  and  was  practically  out  of  my  sight,  unless  I 
turned  my  head  to  look  at  him.  I  did  not  wish  to  in- 
dispose him  still  further  by  an  appearance  of  marked 
curiosity.  It  might  have  been  distasteful  to  such  a 
young  and  secret  refugee  from  under  the  pestilential 
shadow  hiding  the  true,  kindly  face  of  his  land.  And 
the  shadow,  the  attendant  of  his  countrymen,  stretching 
across  the  middle  of  Europe,  was  lying  on  him  too,  dark- 
ening his  figure  to  my  mental  vision.  "  Without  doubt," 
I  said  to  myself,  listening  to  his  heavy,  unsteady  foot- 
steps, "he  seems  a  somber,  even  a  desperate  revolu- 
tionist; but  he  is  young,  he  may  be  unselfish  and  hu- 
mane, capable  of  compassion,  of  .  .  ." 

I  heard  him  clear,  gratingly,  his  parched  throat,  and 
became  all  attention. 

"This  is  beyond  everything,"  were  his  first  words. 
"  It  is  beyond  everything!  I  find  you  here  for  no  reason 
that  I  can  understand,  in  possession  of  something  I 
cannot  be  expected  to  understand!  A  confidant!  A 
foreigner!  Talking  about  an  admirable  Russian  girl. 
Is  the  admirable  girl  a  fool,  I  begin  to  wonder!  What 
are  you  at?     What  is  your  object?" 

He  was  barely  audible,  as  if  his  throat  had  no  more 
resonance  than  a  dry  rag,  a  piece  of  tinder.  It  was  so 
pitiful  that  I  found  it  extremely  easy  to  control  my 
indignation. 

"When  you  have  lived  a  little  longer,  Mr.  Razumov, 
you  will  discover  that  no  woman  is  an  absolute  fool.     I 

i8i 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

am  not  a  feminist,  like  that  illustrious  author  Peter 
Ivanovitch,  who,  to  say  the  truth,  is  not  a  little  suspect 
to  me.  .  .  ." 

He  interrupted  me  in  a  surprising  note  of  whispering 
astonishment. 

** Suspect  to  you!  Peter  Ivanovitch  suspect  to  you! 
To  you!  .  .  ." 

''Yes,  in  a  certain  aspect  he  is,"  I  said,  dismissing 
my  remark  lightly.  "As  I  was  saying,  Mr.  Razumov, 
when  you  have  lived  long  enough  you  will  learn  to  dis- 
criminate between  the  noble  trustfulness  of  a  nature 
foreign  to  every  meanness  and  the  flattered  credulity  of 
some  women;  though  even  these  last,  silly  as  they  may 
be,  unhappy  as  they  are  sure  to  be,  are  never  absolute 
fools.  It  is  my  belief  that  no  woman  is  ever  com- 
pletely deceived.  Those  that  are  lost  leap  into  the 
abyss  with  their  eyes  open,  if  all  the  truth  were 
known." 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  cried,  at  my  elbow,  "what  is 
it  to  me  whether  women  are  fools  or  lunatics  ?  I  really 
don't  care  what  you  think  of  them.  I — I  am  not  in- 
terested in  them.  I  let  them  be.  I  am  not  a  young 
man  in  a  novel.  How  do  you  know  that  I  want  to  learn 
anything  about  women  ?  .  .  .  What  is  thcimeaning  of  all 
this?" 

"The  object,  you  mean,  of  this  conversation  which,  I 
admit,  I  have  forced  upon  you  in  a  measure." 

"Forced!  Object!"  he  repeated,  still  keeping  half  a 
pace  or  so  behind  me.  "You  wanted  to  talk  about 
women,  apparently.  That's  a  subject.  But  I  don't 
care  for  it.  I  have  never  ...  In  fact,  I  have  had  other 
subjects  to  think  about." 

"I  am  concerned  here  with  one  woman  only.  A 
young  girl.  The  sister  of  your  dead  friend.  Miss 
Haldin.  Surely  you  can  think  a  little  of  her.  What  I 
meant  from  the  first  was  that  there  is  a  situation  which 
you  cannot  be  expected  to  understand." 

182 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

I  listened  to  his  unsteady  footfalls  by  my  side  for  the 
space  of  several  strides. 

"  I  think  that  it  may  prepare  the  ground  for  your  next 
interview  with  Miss  Haldin  if  I  tell  you  of  it.  I  im- 
agine that  she  might  have  had  something  of  the  kind 
in  her  mind  when  she  left  us  together.  I  believe  my- 
self authorized  to  speak.  The  peculiar  situation  I  have 
alluded  to  has  arisen  in  the  first  grief  and  distress  of 
Victor  Haldin's  execution.  There  was  something  pe- 
culiar in  the  circumstances  of  his  arrest.  You,  no  doubt, 
know  the  whole  truth.  ..." 

I  felt  my  arm  seized  above  the  elbow,  and  next  in- 
stant found  myself  swung  so  as  to  face  Mr.  Razumov. 

"You  spring  up  from  the  ground  before  me  with  this 
talk.  Who  the  devil  are  you ?  This  is  not  to  be  borne! 
Why  ?  What  for  ?  What  do  you  know  of  what  is  or  is 
not  peculiar?  What  have  you  to  do  with  any  con- 
founded circumstances,  or  with  anything  that  happens 
in  Russia,  anyway?" 

He  leaned  on  his  stick  with  his  other  hand  heavily; 
and  when  he  let  go  my  arm  I  was  certain  in  my  mind  that 
he  was  hardly  able  to  keep  on  his  feet. 

"Let  us  sit  down  at  one  of  these  vacant  tables,"  I 
proposed,  disregarding  this  display  of  unexpectedly 
profound  emotion.  It  was  not  without  its  effect  on 
me,  I  confess.     I  was  sorry  for  him. 

"What  tables?  What  are  you  talking  about?  Oh — 
the  empty  tables?  The  tables  there.  Certainly.  I 
will  sit  at  one  of  the  empty  tables." 

I  led  him  away  from  the  path  to  the  very  center  of  the 
raft  of  deals  before  the  chalet.  The  Swiss  couple  were 
gone  by  that  time.  We  were  alone  on  the  raft,  so  to 
speak.  Mr.  Razumov  dropped  into  a  chair,  let  fall 
his  stick,  and,  propped  on  his  elbows,  his  head  between 
his  hands,  stared  at  me  persistently,  openly,  and  con- 
tinuously, while  I  signaled  the  waiter  and  ordered  some 
beer.  I  could  not  quarrel  with  this  silent  inspection 
13  183 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

very  well,  because,  truth  to  tell,  I  felt  somewhat  guilty 
of  having  been  sprung  on  him  with  some  abruptness — 
of  having  "sprung  from  the  ground,"  as  he  expressed  it. 

While  waiting  to  be  served  I  mentioned  that,  born 
from  parents  settled  in  St.  Petersburg,  I  had  acquired 
the  language  as  a  child.  The  town  I  did  not  remember, 
having  left  it  for  good  as  a  boy  of  nine,  but  in  later 
years  I  had  renewed  my  acquaintance  with  the  language. 
He  listened,  intent,  without  as  much  as  moving  his  eyes 
the  least  little  bit.  He  had  to  change  his  position  when 
the  beer  came,  and  the  instant  draining  of  his  glass 
revived  him.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and,  folding 
his  arms  across  his  chest,  continued  to  stare  at  me 
squarely.  It  occurred  to  me  that  his  clean-shaven, 
almost  swarthy  face  was  really  of  the  very  mobile  sort, 
and  that  the  absolute  stillness  of  it  was  the  acquired 
habit  of  a  revolutionist,  of  a  conspirator  everlastingly 
on  his  guard  against  self-betrayal  in  a  world  of  secret 
spies. 

"But  you  are  an  Englishman — a  teacher  of  English 
literature,"  he  murmured,  in  a  voice  that  was  no  longer 
issuing  from  a  parched  throat.  "I  have  heard  of  you. 
People  told  me  you  have  lived  here  for  years." 

"Quite  true.  More  than  twenty  years.  And  I  have 
been  assisting  Miss  Hal  din  with  her  English  studies." 

"You  have  been  reading  English  poetry  with  her," 
he  said,  immovable  now,  like  another  man  altogether, 
a  complete  stranger  to  the  man  of  the  heavy  and  un- 
certain footfalls  a  little  while  ago — at  my  elbow. 

"Yes,  English  poetry,"  I  said.  "But  the  trouble  of 
which  I  speak  was  caused  by  an  English  newspaper." 
He  continued  to  stare  at  me.  I  don't  think  he  knew 
before  that  the  story  of  the  midnight  arrest  had  been 
ferreted  out  by  an  English  journalist  and  given  to  the 
world.  When  I  explained  this  to  him  he  muttered  con- 
temptuously, "It  may  have  been  altogether  a  lie." 

"I  should  think  you  are  the  best  judge  of  that,"  I 

184 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

retorted,  a  little  disconcerted.  "I  must  confess  that 
to  me  it  looks  to  be  true  in  the  main." 

"How  can  you  tell  truth  from  lies?"  he  queried,  in  his 
new,  immovable  manner. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  do  it  in  Russia,"  I  began, 
rather  nettled  by  his  attitude.     He  interrupted  me. 

"In  Russia,  and  in  general  everywhere — in  a  news- 
paper, for  instance.  The  color  of  the  ink  and  the 
shapes  of  the  letters  are  the  same." 

"Well.  There  are  other  trifles  one  can  go  by.  The 
character  of  the  publication,  the  general  verisimilitude 
of  the  news,  the  consideration  of  the  motive,  and  so  on. 
I  don't  trust  blindly  the  accuracy  of  special  corre- 
spondents— ^but  why  should  this  one  have  gone  to  the 
trouble  of  concocting  a  circumstantial  falsehood  on  a 
matter  of  no  importance  to  the  world?" 

"That's  what  it  is,"  he  grumbled.  "What's  going  on 
with  us  is  of  no  importance — a  mere  sensational  story  to 
amuse  the  readers  of  the  papers — the  superior,  con- 
temptuous Europe.  It  is  hateful  to  think  of.  But  let 
them  wait  a  bit!" 

He  broke  off  on  this  sort  of  threat  addressed  to  the 
Western  world.  Disregarding  the  anger  in  his  stare,  I 
pointed  out  that,  whether  the  journalist  was  well  or  ill 
informed,  the  concern  of  the  friends  of  these  ladies  was 
with  the  effect  the  few  lines  of  print  in  question  had  pro- 
duced— the  effect  alone.  And  surely  he  must  be  counted 
as  one  of  the  friends — if  only  for  the  sake  of  his  late  com- 
rade and  intimate  fellow-revolutionist.  At  that  point, 
I  thought  he  was  going  to  speak  vehemently;  but  he 
only  astounded  me  by  the  convulsive  start  of  his  whole 
body.  He  restrained  himself,  folded  his  loosened  arms 
tighter  across  his  chest,  and  sat  back  with  a  smile  in 
which  there  was  a  twitch  of  scorn  and  malice. 

"Yes,  a  comrade  and  an  intimate.  .  .  .  Very  well.'* 

"  I  ventured  to  speak  to  you  on  that  assumption.  And 
I  cannot  be  mistaken.     I  was  present  when  Peter  Ivano- 

185 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

vitch  announced  your  arrival  here  to  Miss  Haldin,  and 
I  saw  her  rehef  and  thankfulness  when  your  name  was 
mentioned.  Afterward  she  showed  me  her  brother's 
letter  and  read  out  the  few  words  in  which  he  alludes  to 
you.     What  else  but  a  friend  could  you  have  been?" 

"  Obviously.  That's  perfectly  well  known.  A  friend. 
Quite  correct.  ...  Go  on.  You  were  talking  of  some 
effect." 

I  said  to  myself:  "  He  puts  on  the  callousness  of  a 
stem  revolutionist,  the  insensibility  to  common  emo- 
tions of  a  man  devoted  to  a  destructive  idea.  He  is 
young,  and  his  sincerity  assumes  a  pose  before  a  stranger, 
a  foreigner,  an  old  man.  Youth  must  assert  itself.  ..." 
As  concisely  as  possible  I  exposed  to  him  the  state  of 
mind  poor  Mrs.  Haldin  had  been  thrown  into  by  the 
news  of  her  son's  untimely  end. 

He  listened — I  felt  it — with  profound  attention.  His 
level  stare,  deflected  gradually  downward,  left  my  face 
and  rested  at  last  on  the  ground  at  his  feet. 

"You  can  enter  into  the  sister's  feelings.  As  you 
said,  I  have  only  read  a  little  English  poetry  with  her, 
and  I  won't  make  myself  ridiculous  in  your  eyes  by  try- 
ing to  speak  of  her.  But  you  have  seen  her.  She  is 
one  of  those  rare  human  beings  that  do  not  want  ex- 
plaining. At  least  I  think  so.  They  had  only  that  son, 
that  brother,  for  a  link  with  the  wider  world,  with  the 
future.  The  very  groundwork  of  active  existence  for 
Nathalie  Haldin  is  gone  with  him.  Can  you  wonder, 
then,  that  she  turns  with  eagerness  to  the  only  man 
her  brother  mentions  in  his  letters.?  Your  name  is  a 
sort  of  legacy." 

**What  could  he  have  written  of  me?"  he  cried,  in  a 
low,  exasperated  tone. 

''Only  a  few  words.  It  is  not  for  me  to  repeat  them 
to  you,  Mr.  Razumov;  but  you  may  believe  my  asser- 
tion that  these  words  are  forcible  enough  to  make  both 
his  mother  and  his  sister  believe  implicitly  in  the  worth 

i86 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

of  your  judgment  and  in  the  truth  of  anything  you 
may  have  to  say  to  them.  It's  impossible  for  you  now 
to  pass  them  by  Hke  strangers." 

I  paused,  and  for  a  moment  sat  listening  to  the  foot- 
steps of  the  few  people  passing  up  and  down  the  broad, 
central  walk.  While  I  was  speaking  his  head  had  sunk 
upon  his  breast  above  his  folded  arms.  He  raised  it 
sharply. 

**Must  I  go,  then,  and  lie  to  that  old  woman?" 

It  was  not  anger;  it  was  something  else,  something 
more  poignant  and  not  so  simple.  I  was  aware  of  it 
sympathetically,  while  I  was  profoundly  concerned  at 
the  nature  of  that  exclamation. 

"Dear  me!  Won't  the  truth  do,  then?  I  hoped  you 
could  have  told  them  something  consoling.  I  am  think- 
ing of  the  poor  mother  now.  Your  Russia  is  a  cruel 
country." 

He  moved  a  little  in  his  chair. 

"Yes,"  I  repeated.  "I  thought  you  would  have  had 
something  authentic  to  tell." 

The  twitching  of  his  lips  before  he  spoke  was  curious. 

"What  if  it  is  not  worth  telling?" 

"Not  worth — from  what  point  of  view?  I  don*t 
understand." 

"From  every  point  of  view." 

I  spoke  with  some  asperity:  "I  should  think  that 
anything  which  could  explain  the  circumstances  of  that 
midnight  arrest  ..." 

"  Reported  by  a  journalist  for  the  amusement  of  the 
civilized  Europe!"  he  broke  in,  scornfully. 

"Yes,  reported.  .  .  .  But,  aren't  they  true?  I  can't 
make  out  your  attitude  in  this.  Either  the  man  is  a 
hero  to  you  or  .  .  ." 

He  approached  his  face,  with  fiercely  distended  nos- 
trils, close  to  mine  so  suddenly  that  I  had  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  not  starting  back. 

"You  ask  me!  I  suppose  it  amuses  you,  all  this. 
187 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Look  here !  I  am  a  worker.  I  studied.  Yes,  I  studied 
very  hard.  There  is  intelligence  here."  He  tapped  his 
forehead  with  his  finger-tips.  "Don't  you  think  a  Rus- 
sian may  have  sane  ambitions?  Yes — I  had  even  pros- 
pects. Certainly!  I  had.  And  now  you  see  me  here, 
abroad,  everything  gone,  lost,  sacrificed.  You  see  me 
here — and  you  ask!  You  see  me,  don't  you — sitting 
before  you?" 

He  threw  himself  back  violently.  I  kept  outwardly 
calm. 

"Yes,  I  see  you  here;  and,  I  assume,  you  are  here  on 
account  of  the  Haldin  affair?" 

His  manner  changed. 

"  You  call  it  the  Haldin  affair — do  you?"  he  observed, 
indifferently. 

"I  have  no  right  to  ask  you  anything,"  I  said.  "I 
wouldn't  presume.  But  in  that  case  the  mother  and  the 
sister  of  him  who  must  be  a  hero  in  your  eyes  cannot  be 
indifferent  to  you.  The  girl  is  a  frank  and  generous 
creature,  having  the  noblest — well — illusions.  You  will 
tell  her  nothing,  or  you  will  tell  her  everything.  But 
speaking  now  of  the  object  with  which  I've  approached 
you :  first,  we  have  to  deal  with  the  morbid  state  of  the 
mother.  Perhaps  something  could  be  invented  under 
your  authority  as  a  cure  for  a  distracted  and  suffering  soul 
filled  with  maternal  affection." 

His  air  of  weary  indifference  was  accentuated,  I  could 
not  help  thinking,  wilfully. 

"Oh  yes.     Something  might,"  he  mumbled  carelessly. 

He  put  his  hand  over  his  mouth  as  if  to  conceal  a 
yawn.  When  he  uncovered  his  lips  they  were  smiling 
faintly. 

"  Pardon  me.  This  has  been  a  long  conversation,  and 
I  have  not  had  much  sleep  the  last  two  nights." 

This  unexpected,  somewhat  insolent  sort  of  apology 
had  the  merit  of  being  perfectly  true.  He  had  had  no 
nightly  rest,  to  speak  of,  since  that  day  when,  in  the 

i88 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

grounds  of  the  Chateau  Borel,  the  sister  of  Victor  Haldin 
had  appeared  before  him.  The  perplexities  and  the 
complex  terrors — I  may  say — of  this  sleeplessness  are 
recorded  in  the  document  I  was  to  see  later — the  docu- 
ment which  is  the  main  source  of  this  narrative.  At 
the  moment  he  looked  to  me  convincingly  tired,  gone 
slack  all  over,  like  a  man  who  has  passed  through  some 
sort  of  crisis. 

"I  have  had  a  lot  of  urgent  writing  to  do,"  he  added. 

I  rose  from  my  chair  at  once,  and  he  followed  my 
example  without  haste,  a  little  heavily. 

"I  must  apologize  for  detaining  you  so  long,"  I  said. 

"Why  apologize?  One  can't  very  well  go  to  bed  be- 
fore night.  And  you  did  not  detain  me.  I  could  have 
left  you  at  any  time." 

I  had  not  stayed  with  him  to  be  offended. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  been  sufficiently  interested,"  I 
said,  calmly.  "No  merit  of  mine,  though — the  com- 
monest sort  of  regard  for  the  mother  of  your  friend  was 
enough,  .  .  .  As  to  Miss  Haldin  herself,  she,  at  one  time, 
was  disposed  to  think  that  her  brother  had  been  betrayed 
to  the  police  in  some  way." 

To  my  great  surprise,  Mr.  Razumov  sat  down  again 
suddenly.  I  stared  at  him,  and  I  must  say  that  he  re- 
turned my  stare  without  winking  for  quite  a  considerable 
time. 

"In  some  way,"  he  mumbled,  as  if  he  had  not  under- 
stood or  could  not  believe  his  ears. 

"Some  unforeseen  event,  a  sheer  accident,  might  have 
done  that,"  I  went  on.  "Or,  as  she  characteristically 
put  it  to  me,  the  folly  or  weakness  of  some  unhappy  fel- 
low-revolutionist . 

"Folly  or  weakness,"  he  repeated,  bitterly. 

"She  is  a  very  generous  creature,"  I  observed,  after 
a  time. 

The  man  admired  by  Victor  Haldin  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  ground.     I  turned  away  and  moved  off,  apparently 

189 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

unnoticed  by  him.  I  nourished  no  resentment  of  the 
moody  brusqueness  with  which  he  had  treated  me.  The 
sentiment  I  was  carrying  away  from  that  conversation 
was  that  of  hopelessness.  Before  I  had  got  fairly  clear 
of  the  raft  of  chairs  and  tables  he  had  rejoined  me. 

"H'm,  yes!"  I  heard  him  at  my  elbow  again.  "But 
what  do  you  think?" 

I  did  not  look  round,  even. 

"I  think  that  you  people  are  under  a  curse." 

He  made  no  sound.  It  was  only  on  the  pavement  out- 
side the  gate  that  I  heard  him  again. 

"I  should  like  to  walk  with  you  a  little." 

After  all,  I  preferred  this  enigmatical  young  man  to 
his  celebrated  compatriot,  the  great  Peter  Ivanovitch. 
But  I  saw  no  reason  for  being  particularly  gracious. 
I  '*  I  am  going  now  to  the  railway  station  by  the  shortest 
way  from  here  to  meet  a  friend  from  England,"  I  said, 
for  all  answer  to  his  unexpected  proposal.  I  hoped 
that  something  informing  could  come  of  it.  As  we  stood 
on  the  curbstone  waiting  for  a  tram-car  to  pass  he  re- 
marked, gloomily: 

"  I  like  what  you  said  just  now." 

"Do  you?" 

We  stepped  off  the  pavement  together. 

"The  great  problem,"  he  went  on,  "is  to  understand 
thoroughly  the  nature  of  the  curse." 

"That's  not  very  difficult,  I  think." 

"I  think  so,  too,"  he  agreed  with  me,  and  his  readi- 
ness, strangely  enough,  did  not  make  him  less  enig- 
matical. 

"A  curse  is  an  evil  spell,"  I  tried  him  again.  "And 
the  important,  the  great  problem,  is  to  find  the  means 
to  break  it." 

"Yes.     To  find  the  means." 

That  was  also  an  assent,  but  he  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing of  something  else.  We  had  crossed  diagonally  the 
open  space  before  the  theater,  and  began  to  descend  a 

190 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

broad,  sparely  frequented  street  in  the  direction  of  one 
of  the  smaller  bridges.  He  kept  on  by  my  side  without 
speaking  for  a  long  time. 

**You  are  not  thinking  of  leaving  Geneva  soon?"  I 
asked. 

He  was  silent  for  so  long  that  I  began  to  think  I  had 
been  indiscreet  and  should  get  no  answer  at  all.  Yet, 
on  looking  at  him  I  almost  believed  that  my  question 
had  caused  him  something  in  the  nature  of  positive 
anguish.  I  detected  it  mainly  in  the  clasping  of  his 
hands,  in  which  he  put  a  great  force  stealthily.  Once, 
however,  he  had  overcome  that  sort  of  agonizing  hesita- 
tion sufficiently  to  tell  me  that  he  had  no  such  in- 
tention, he  became  rather  communicative — at  least 
relatively  to  the  former  offhand  curtness  of  his  speeches. 
The  tone,  too,  was  more  amiable.  He  informed  me 
that  he  intended  to  study  and  also  to  write.  He 
went  even  so  far  as  to  tell  me  he  had  been  to  Stuttgart. 
Stuttgart,  I  was  aware,  was  one  of  the  revolutionary 
centers.  The  directing  committee  of  one  of  the  Rus- 
sian parties  (I  can't  tell  now  which)  was  located  in  that 
town.  It  was  there  that  he  got  into  touch  with  the 
active  work  of  the  revolutionists  outside  Russia. 

"I  have  never  been  abroad  before,"  he  explained,  in 
a  rather  inanimate  voice  now.  Then,  after  a  slight 
hesitation,  altogether  different  from  the  agonizing  irreso- 
lution my  first  simple  question  ''whether  he  meant  to 
stay  in  Geneva"  had  aroused,  he  made  me  an  unex- 
pected confidence: 

"The  fact  is,  I  have  received  a  sort  of  mission  from 
them." 

"Which  will  keep  you  here  in  Geneva?" 

"Yes.     Here.     In  this  odious  .  .  ." 

I  was  satisfied  with  my  faculty  for  putting  two  and 
two  together  when  I  drew  the  inference  that  the  mission 
had  something  to  do  with  the  person  of  the  great  Peter 
Ivanovitch.     But  I  kept  that  surmise  to  myself  natu- 

191 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

rally,  and  Mr.  Razumov  said  nothing  more  for  some  con- 
siderable time.  It  was  only  when  we  were  nearly  on 
the  bridge  we  had  been  making  for  that  he  opened  his 
lips  again,  abruptly: 

"Could'I  see  that  precious  article  anywhere?" 

I  had  to  think  for  a  moment  before  I  saw  what  he 
was  referring  to. 

*'It  has  been  reproduced  in  parts  by  the  press  here. 
There  are  files  to  be  seen  in  various  places.  My  copy 
of  the  English  newspaper  I  left  with  Miss  Haldin,  I 
remember,  on  the  day  after  it  reached  me.  I  was  suf- 
ficiently worried  by  seeing  it  lying  on  a  table  by  the 
side  of  the  poor  mother's  chair  for  weeks.  Then  it  dis- 
appeared.    It  was  a  relief,  I  assure  you." 

He  had  stopped  short. 

"I  trust,"  I  continued,  "that  you  will  find  time  to 
see  these  ladies  fairly  often — that  you  will  make  time." 

He  stared  at  me  so  queerly  that  I  hardly  know  how 
to  define  his  aspect.  I  could  not  understand  it  in  this 
connection  at  all.  What  ailed  him?  I  asked  myself. 
What  strange  thought  had  come  into  his  head?  What 
vision  of  all  the  horrors  that  can  be  seen  in  his  hopeless 
country  had  come  suddenly  to  haunt  his  brain?  If  it 
were  anything  connected  with  the  fate  of  Victor  Haldin, 
then  I  hoped  earnestly  he  would  keep  it  to  himself  for- 
ever. I  was,  to  speak  plainly,  so  shocked  that  I  tried 
to  conceal  my  impression  by — Heaven  forgive  me — a 
smile  and  the  assumption  of  a  light  manner. 

"Surely,"  I  exclaimed,  "that  needn't  cost  you  a 
great  effort." 

He  turned  away  from  me  and  leaned  over  the  parapet 
of  the  bridge.  For  a  moment  I  waited,  looking  at  his 
back.  And  yet,  I  assure  you,  I  was  not  anxious  just 
then  to  look  at  his  face  again.  He  did  not  move  at  all. 
He  did  not  mean  to  move.  I  walked  on  slowly,  on  my 
way  toward  the  station.  At  the  end  of  the  bridge  I 
glanced  over  my  shoulder.     No,  he  had  not  moved.     He 

192 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

hung  well  over  the  parapet,  as  if  captivated  by  the 
smooth  rush  of  the  blue  water  under  the  arch.  The 
current  there  is  swift,  extremely  swift;  it  makes  some 
people  dizzy;  I  myself  can  never  look  at  it  for  any 
length  of  time  without  experiencing  a  dread  of  being 
suddenly  snatched  away  by  its  destructive  force.  Some 
brains  cannot  resist  the  suggestion  of  irresistible  power 
and  of  headlong  motion. 

It  apparently  had  a  charm  for  Mr.  Razumov.  I  left 
him  hanging  far  over  the  parapet  of  the  bridge.  The 
way  he  had  behaved  to  me  could  not  be  put  down  to 
mere  boorishness.  There  was  something  else  under  his 
scorn  and  impatience.  Perhaps,  I  thought,  with  sud- 
den approach  to  hidden  truth,  it  was  the  same  thing 
which  had  kept  him  over  a  week,  nearly  ten  days,  in- 
deed, from  coming  near  Miss  Hal  din.  But  what  it  was 
I  could  not  tell.  Though  he  leaned  dangerously  far 
over  the  parapet,  he  had  not  the  aspect  of  a  man  un- 
duly fascinated  by  the  suggestion  of  the  running  water. 


PART    THIRD 


^ 


THE  water  under  the  bridge  ran  violent  and  deep. 
Its  slightly  undulating  rush  seemed  capable  of 
scouring  out  a  channel  for  itself  through  solid  gran- 
ite while  you  looked.  But,  had  it  flowed  through 
Razumov's  breast,  it  could  not  have  washed  away  the 
accumulated  bitterness  the  wrecking  of  his  life  had 
deposited  there. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  he  thought,  star- 
ing downward  at  the  headlong  river  flowing  so  smooth 
and  clean  that  only  the  passage  of  a  faint  air-bubble 
or  a  thin  vanishing  streak  of  foam  like  a  white  hair 
disclosed  its  vertiginous  rapidity,  its  terrible  force. 
"Why  has  that  meddlesome  old  Englishman  blundered 
against  me  ?  And  what  is  this  silly  tale  of  a  crazy  old 
woman?" 

He  was  trying  to  think  brutally  on  purpose,  but  he 
avoided  any  mental  reference  to  the  young  girl.  "A 
crazy  old  woman,"  he  repeated  to  himself.  "It  is  a 
fatality !  Or  ought  I  to  despise  all  this  as  an  absurdity  ? 
But,  no !  I  am  wrong !  I  can't  afford  to  despise  anything. 
An  absurdity  may  be  the  starting-point  of  the  most 
dangerous  complications.  How  is  one  to  guard  against 
it?  It  puts  to  rout  one's  intelligence.  The  more  in- 
telligent one  is  the  less  one  suspects  an  absurdity." 

A  wave  of  wrath  choked  his  thoughts  for  a  moment. 
It  even  made  his  body  leaning  over  the  parapet  quiver; 
then  he  resumed  his  silent  thinking,  like  a  secret  dia- 
logue with  himself.  And  even  in  that  privacy,  his  thought 
had  some  reservations  of  which  he  was  vaguely  conscious. 

197 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"After  all,  this  is  not  absurd,  perhaps.  It  is  insig- 
nificant. It  is  absolutely  insignificant — absolutely. 
The  craze  of  an  old  woman — the  fussy  officiousness  of  a 
blundering  elderly  Englishman.  What  devil  put  him 
in  the  way?  Haven't  I  treated  him  cavalierly  enough? 
Haven't  I  just?  That's  the  way  to  treat  these  med- 
dlesome persons.  Is  it  possible  that  he  still  stands 
behind  my  back,  waiting?" 

Razumov  felt  a  faint  chill  run  down  his  spine.  It  was 
not  fear.  He  was  certain  that  it  was  not  fear — not 
fear  for  himself;  but  it  was,  all  the  same,  a  sort 
of  apprehension  as  if  for  another,  for  some  one  he 
knew  without  being  able  to  put  a  name  on  the  per- 
sonality. But  the  recollection  that  the  officious  Eng- 
lishman had  a  train  to  meet,  tranquilized  him  for  a  time. 
It  was  too  stupid  to  suppose  that  he  should  be  wasting 
his  time  in  waiting.  It  was  unnecessary  to  look  round 
and  make  sure." 

"But  what  did  he  mean  by  his  extraordinary  rigma- 
role about  the  newspaper  and  that  crazy  old  woman?" 
he  thought,  suddenly.  **  It  was  a  damnable  presump- 
tion, anyhow,  something  that  only  an  Englishman  could 
be  capable  of.  All  this  was  a  sort  of  sport  for  him — 
the  sport  of  revolution — a  game  to  look  at  from  the 
height  of  his  superiority.  And  what  on  earth  did  he 
mean  by  his  exclamation,  'Won't  the  truth  do?'  " 

Razumov  pressed  his  folded  arms  to  the  stone  cop- 
ing over  which  he  was  leaning,  with  force.  ''Won't  the 
truth  do?"  The  truth  for  the  crazy  old  mother  of 
the  .  .  ." 

The  young  man  shuddered  again.  "  Yes.  The  truth 
would  do!  Apparently  it  would  do.  Exactly.  And 
receive  thanks,"  he  thought,  formulating  the  unspoken 
words  cynically.  "Fall  on  my  neck  in  gratitude,  no 
doubt,"  he  jeered,  mentally.  But  this  mood  abandoned 
him  at  once.  He  felt  sad,  as  if  his  heart  had  become 
empty  suddenly.     "Well,  I  must  be  cautious,"  he  con- 

198 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

eluded,  coming  to  himself  as  though  his  brain  had  been 
awakened  from  a  trance.  "There  is  nothing,  no  one 
too  insignificant,  too  absurd,  to  be  disregarded,"  he 
thought,  wearily.     ''I  must  be  cautious." 

Razumov  pushed  himself  with  his  hand  away  from 
the  balustrade,  and,  retracing  his  steps  along  the  bridge, 
walked  straight  to  his  lodgings,  where  for  a  iew  days 
he  led  a  solitary  and  retired  existence.  He  neglected 
Peter  Ivanovitch,  to  whom  he  was  accredited  by  the 
Stuttgart  group;  he  never  went  near  the  refugee  revo- 
lutionists, to  whom  he  had  been  introduced  on  his 
arrival.  He  kept  out  of  that  world  altogether.  And 
he  felt  that  such  conduct,  causing  surprise  and  arousing 
suspicion,  contained  an  element  of  danger  for  himself. 

This  is  not  to  say  that  during  these  few  days  he  never 
went  out.  I  met  him  several  times  in  the  streets,  but 
he  gave  me  no  recognition.  Once,  going  home  after  an 
evening  call  on  the  ladies  Haldin,  I  saw  him  crossing 
the  dark  roadway  of  the  Boulevard  des  Philosophes. 
He  had  a  broad-brimmed,  soft  hat,  and  the  collar  of  his 
coat  turned  up.  I  watched  him  make  straight  for  the 
house,  but,  instead  of  going  in,  he  stopped  opposite  the 
still  lighted  windows,  and  after  a  time  went  away  down 
a  side  street. 

I  knew  that  he  had  not  been  to  see  Mrs.  Haldin  yet. 
Miss  Haldin  told  me  he  was  reluctant;  moreover,  the 
mental  condition  of  Mrs.  Haldin  had  changed.  She 
seemed  to  think  now  that  her  son  was  living,  and  she 
perhaps  awaited  his  arrival.  Her  immobility  in  the  great 
arm-chair  in  front  of  the  window  had  an  air  of  expec- 
tancy, even  when  the  blind  was  down  and  the  lamps 
lighted. 

For  my  part,  I  was  convinced  she  had  received  her 
death-stroke;  Miss  Haldin,  to  whom,  of  course,  I  said 
nothing  of  my  forebodings,  thought  that  no  good  would 
come  from  introducing  Mr.  Razumov  just  then,  an  opin- 
ion which  I  shared  fully.  I  knew  that  she  met  the  young 
14  199 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

man  on  the  Bastions.  Once  or  twice  I  saw  them  stroll- 
ing slowly  up  the  main  alley.  Perhaps  they  met  every 
day.  I  don't  know.  I  avoided  passing  that  way  dur- 
ing the  hour  when  Miss  Haldin  took  her  exercise  there. 
One  day,  however,  in  a  fit  of  absent-mindedness,  I 
entered  the  gates  and  came  upon  her  walking  alone.  I 
stopped  to  exchange  a  few  words.  Mr.  Razumov  failed 
to  turn  up,  and  we  began  to  talk  about  him — naturally. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  anything  definite  about  your  brother's 
activities — his  end?"  I  ventured  to  ask. 

'*No,"  admitted  Miss  Haldin,  with  some  hesitation. 
"Nothing  definite." 

I  understood  well  enough  that  all  their  conversa- 
tions must  have  been  referred  mentally  to  that  dead 
man  who  had  brought  them  together.  That  was  un- 
avoidable. But  it  was  in  the  living  man  that  she  was 
interested.  That  was  unavoidable,  too,  I  suppose.  And 
as  I  pushed  my  inquiries  I  discovered  that  he  had  dis- 
closed himself  to  her  as  a  by  no  means  conventional 
revolutionist,  contemptuous  of  watchwords,  of  theories, 
of  men,  too.  I  was  rather  pleased  at  that — ^but  I  was  a  \ 
little  puzzled. 

"His  mind  goes  forward,  far  ahead  of  the  struggle," 
Miss  Haldin  explained.  "Of  course  he  is  an  actual 
worker,  too,"  she  added. 

"And  do  you  understand  him?"  I  inquired,  point- 
blank. 

She  hesitated  again.    * '  Not  altogether,"  she  murmured. 

I  perceived  that  he  had  fascinated  her  by  an  assump- 
tion of  mysterious  reserve. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think?"  she  went  on,  breaking 
through  her  reserved,  almost  reluctant,  attitude;  "I 
think  that  he  is  observing,  studying  me,  to  discover 
whether  I  am  worthy  of  his  trust.  ..." 

"And  that  pleases  you?" 

She  kept  mysteriously  silent  for  a  moment.  Then 
with  energy,  but  in  a  confidential  tone: 

200 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"I  am  convinced,"  she  declared,  "that  this  extraor- 
dinary man  is  meditating  some  vast  plan,  some  great  un- 
dertaking; he  is  possessed  by  it — he  suffers  from  it — 
and  from  being  alone  in  the  world." 

"  And  so  he's  looking  for  helpers?"  I  commented,  turn- 
ing away  my  head. 

Again  there  was  a  silence. 

"Why  not?"  she  said  at  last. 

The  dead  brother,  the  dying  mother,  the  foreign  friend 
had  fallen  into  a  distant  background.  But,  at  the  same 
time,  Peter  Ivanovitch  was  absolutely  nowhere  now. 
And  this  thought  consoled  me.  Yet  I  saw  the  gigantic 
shadow  of  Russian  life  deepening  around  her  like  the 
darkness  of  an  advancing  night.  It  would  devour  her 
presently.  I  inquired  after  Mrs.  Haldin — that  other 
victim  of  the  deadly  shade. 

A  remorseful  uneasiness  appeared  in  her  frank  eyes. 
Mother  seemed  no  worse,  but  if  I  only  knew  what  strange 
fancies  she  had  sometimes!  Then  Miss  Haldin,  glancing 
at  her  watch,  declared  that  she  could  not  stay  a  moment 
longer,  and,  with  a  hasty  handshake,  ran  off  lightly. 

Decidedly  Mr.  Razumov  was  not  to  turn  up  that  day. 
Incomprehensible  youth!  .  .  . 

But  less  than  an  hour  afterward,  while  crossing  the 
Place  Mollard,  I  caught  sight  of  him  boarding  a  South 
Shore  tram-car. 

"He's  going  to  the  Chateau  Borel,"  I  thought. 

After  depositing  Razumov  at  the  gates  of  the  Chateau 
Borel,  some  half  a  mile  or  so  from  the  town,  the  car  con- 
tinued its  journey,  between  two  straight  lines  of  shady 
trees.  Across  the  roadway,  in  the  sunshine,  a  short, 
wooden  pier  jutted  into  the  shallow,  pale  water  which, 
farthier  out,  had  an  intense  blue  tint,  contrasting  un- 
pleasantly with  the  green,  orderly  slopes  on  the  opposite 
shore.  The  whole  view,  with  the  harbor  jetties  of 
white  stone  underlining  lividly  the   dark  front  of  the 

20J 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

town  to  the  left,  and  the  expanding  space  of  water  to  the 
right,  with  jutting  promontories  of  no  particular  charac- 
ter, had  the  uninspiring,  glittering  quality  of  a  very- 
fresh  oleograph.  Razumov  turned  his  back  on  it  with 
contempt.  He  thought  it  odious — oppressively  odious 
in  its  unsuggestive  finish,  the  very  perfection  of  medioc- 
rity attained  at  last  after  centuries  of  toil  and  culture. 
And,  turning  his  back  on  it,  he  faced  the  entrance  to  the 
grounds  of  the  Chateau  Borel. 

The  bars  of  the  central  way  and  the  wrought-iron 
arch  between  the  dark,  weather-stained  stone  piers  were 
very  rusty;  and,  though  fresh  tracks  of  wheels  ran  under 
it,  the  gate  looked  as  if  it  had  not  been  opened  for  a  very 
long  time.  But  close  against  the  lodge,  built  of  the  same 
gray  stone  as  the  piers  (its  windows  were  all  boarded  up) 
there  was  a  small  side  entrance.  The  bars  of  that  were 
rusty,  too ;  it  stood  ajar  and  looked  as  though  it  had  not 
been  closed  for  a  long  time.  In  fact,  Razumov,  trying 
to  push  it  open  a  little  wider,  discovered  it  was  im- 
movable. 

"Democratic  virtue.  There  are  no  thieves  here  ap- 
parently," he  muttered  to  himself,  with  displeasure. 
Before  advancing  into  the  grounds  he  looked  back 
sourly  at  an  idle  working-man  lounging  on  the  bench 
in  the  clean,  broad  avenue.  The  fellow  had  thrown  his 
feet  up ;  one  of  his  arms  hung  over  the  low  back  of  the 
public  seat;  he  was  taking  a  day  off  in  lordly  repose,  as 
if  everything  in  sight  belonged  to  him. 

** Elector!  Eligible!  Enlightened!"  Razumov  mut- 
tered to  himself.     "A  brute  all  the  same." 

Razumov  entered  the  grounds  and  walked  fast  up  the 
wide  sweep  of  the  drive,  trying  to  think  of  nothing — to 
rest  his  head,  to  rest  his  emotions,  too.  But  arriving  at 
the  foot  of  the  terrace  before  the  house,  he  faltered,  af- 
fected physically  by  some  invisible  interference.  The 
mysteriousness  of  his  quickened  heart-beats  startled 
him.     He  stopped  short  and  looked  at  the  brick  wall  of 

2QZ 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

the  terrace,  faced  with  shallow  arches,  meagerly  clothed 
by  a  few  unthriving  creepers,  with  an  ill-kept,  narrow 
flower-bed  along  its  foot. 

*'It  is  here!"  he  thought,  with  a  sort  of  awe.  "It  is 
here — on  this  very  spot." 

He  was  tempted  to  flight  at  the  mere  recollection  of 
his  first  meeting  with  Nathalie  Haldin.  He  confessed  it 
to  himself;  but  he  did  not  move,  and  that  not  because 
he  wished  to  resist  an  unworthy  weakness,  but  because 
he  knew  that  he  had  no  place  to  fly  to.  Moreover,  he 
could  not  leave  Geneva.  He  recognized,  even  without 
thinking,  that  it  was  impossible.  It  would  have  been 
a  fatal  admission,  an  act  of  moral  suicide.  It  would 
have  been  also  physically  dangerous.  Slowly  he  as- 
cended the  stairs  of  the  terrace  flanked  by  two  stained 
greenish  stone  urns  of  funereal  aspect. 

Across  the  broad  platform,  where  a  few  blades  of 
grass  sprouted  on  the  discolored  gravel,  the  door  of 
the  house,  with  its  ground-floor  windows  shuttered, 
faced  him,  wide  open.  He  believed  that  his  approach 
had  been  noted,  because,  framed  in  the  doorway,  without 
his  tall  hat,  Peter  Ivanovitch  seemed  to  be  waiting  for 
his  approach. 

The  ceremonious  black  frock-coat  and  the  bared  head 
of  Europe's  greatest  feminist  accentuated  the  dubious- 
ness of  his  status   in   the    house  rented  by  Mme.  de 

S ,  his  Egeria.     His  aspect  combined  the  formality 

of  the  caller  with  the  freedom  of  the  proprietor.  Florid 
and  bearded,  and  masked  by  the  dark-blue  glasses,  he 
met  the  visitor,  and  at  once  took  him  familiarly  under 
the  arm. 

Razumov  suppressed  every  sign  of  repugnance  by  an 
effort  which  the  constant  necessity  of  prudence  had 
rendered  almost  mechanical.  And  this  necessity  had  set- 
tled his  expression  in  a  cast  of  austere,  almost  fanatical 
aloofness.  The  "heroic  fugitive,"  impressed  afresh  by 
the  severe  detachment  of  this  new  arrival  from  the 

203 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

revolutionary  Russia,  took  a  conciliatory,  even  a  con- 
fidential tone.     Mme.  de  S was  resting  after  a  bad 

night.  She  often  had  bad  nights.  He  had  left  his  hat 
up-stairs  on  the  landing,  and  had  come  down  to  suggest 
to  his  young  friend  a  stroll  and  a  good  open-hearted  talk 
in  one  of  the  shady  alleys  behind  the  house.  After 
voicing  this  proposal,  the  great  man  glanced  at  the  un- 
moved face  by  his  side,  and  could  not  restrain  himself 
from  exclaiming: 

"On  my  word,  young  man,  you  are  an  extraordinary 
person." 

*'I  fancy  you  are  mistaken,  Peter  Ivanovitch.  If  I 
were  really  an  extraordinary  person,  I  would  not  be 
here,  walking  with  you  in  a  garden  in  Switzerland,  Can- 
ton of  Geneva,  Commune  of — what's  the  name  of  the 
commune  this  place  belongs  to?  .  .  .  Never  mind — the 
heart  of  democracy,  anyhow.  A  fit  heart  for  it;  no 
bigger  than  a  parched  pea  and  about  as  much  value.  I 
am  no  more  extraordinary  than  the  rest  of  us  Russians, 
wandering  abroad." 

But  Peter  Ivanovitch  protested  emphatically: 

"No!  No!  You  are  not  ordinary.  I  have  som^ 
experience  of  Russians  who  are — well — living  abroad. 
You  appear  to  me  and  to  others,  too,  a  marked  per- 
sonality." 

"What  does  he  mean  by  this?"  Razumov  asked  him- 
self, turning  his  eyes  fully  on  his  companion.  The  face 
of  Peter  Ivanovitch  expressed  a  meditative   seriousness. 

"You  don't  suppose,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  that  I  have 
not  heard  of  you  from  various  points  where  you  made 
yourself  known  on  your  way  here.     I  have  had  letters." 

"Oh,  we  are  great  in  talking  about  one  another,"  in- 
terjected Razumov,  who  was  listening  with  great  atten- 
tion. "Gossip,  tales,  suspicions,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  we  know  how  to  deal  in  to  perfection.  Calumny 
even  ..." 

In  indulging  in  this  sally,  Razumov  managed  very 

204 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

well  to  conceal  the  feeling  of  anxiety  that  came  over 
him.  At  the  same  time  he  was  saying  to  himself  that 
there  could  be  no  earthly  reason  for  anxiety.  He  was 
relieved  by  the  evident  sincerity  of  the  protesting  voice. 

"Heavens!"  cried  Peter  Ivanovitch.  **What  are  you 
talking  about!     What  reason  can  yoti  have  to  .   .   .?" 

The  great  exile  flung  up  his  arms  as  if  words  had 
failed  him  in  sober  truth.  Razumov  was  satisfied.  Yet 
he  was  moved  to  continue  in  the  same  vein. 

"I  am  talking  of  the  poisonous  plants  which  flourish 
in  the  world  of  conspirators,  like  evil  mushrooms  in  a 
dark  cellar." 

"You  are  casting  aspersions,"  remonstrated  Peter 
Ivanovitch,  "which  as  far  as  you  are  concerned  .  .  ." 

"No!"  Razumov  interrupted,  without  heat.  "In- 
deed, I  don't  want  to  cast  aspersions,  but  it's  just  as 
well  to  have  no  illusions." 

Peter  Ivanovitch  gave  him  an  inscrutable  glance  of 
his  dark  spectacles,  accompanied  by  a  faint  smile. 

"The  man  who  says  that  he  has  no  illusions  has  at 
least  that  one,"  he  said,  in  a  very  friendly  tone.  "But 
I  see  how  it  is,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch.    You  aim  at  stoicism." 

"Stoicism!  That's  a  pose  of  the  Greeks  and  the 
Romans.  Let's  leave  it  to  them.  We  are  Russians, 
that  is — children;  that  is — sincere;  that  is — cynical, 
if  you  like.     But  that's  not  a  pose." 

A  long  silence  ensued.  They  strolled  slowly  under 
the  lime-trees.  Peter  Ivanovitch  had  put  his  hands 
behind  his  back.  Razumov  felt  the  ungraveled  ground 
of  the  deeply  shadowed  walk  damp,  and  as  if  slippery 
under  his  feet.  He  asked  himself,  with  uneasiness,  if  he 
were  saying  the  right  things.  The  direction  of  the  con- 
versation ought  to  have  been  more  under  his  control, 
he  reflected.  The  great  man  appeared  to  be  reflecting 
on  his  side,  too.  He  cleared  his  throat  slightly,  and 
Razumov  felt  at  once  a  painful  reawakening  of  scorn  and 
fear. 

205 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"I  am  astonished,"  began  Peter  Ivanovitch,  gently. 
"Supposing  you  are  right  in  your  indictment,  how  can 
you  raise  any  question  of  calumny  or  gossip  in  your  case  ? 
It  is  unreasonable.  The  fact  is,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch, 
there  is  not  enough  known  of  you  to  give  hold  to  gossip 
or  even  calumny.  Just  now  you  are  a  man  associated 
with  a  great  deed  which  had  been  hoped  for,  and  tried 
for,  too,  without  success.  People  have  perished  for  at- 
tempting that  which  you  and  Haldin  have  done  at 
last.  You  come  to  us  out  of  Russia  with  that  prestige. 
But  you  cannot  deny  that  you  have  not  been  commu- 
nicative, Kirylo  Sidorovitch.  People  you  have  met 
imparted  their  impressions  to  me;  one  wrote  this,  an- 
other that,  but  I  form  my  own  opinions.  I  waited  to 
see  you  first.  You  are  a  man  out  of  the  common. 
That's  positively  so.  You  are  close,  very  close.  This 
taciturnity,  this  severe  brow,  this  something  inflexible 
and  secret  in  you,  inspires  hopes  and  a  little  wonder 
as  to  what  you  may  mean.  There  is  something  of  a 
Brutus  ..." 

"Pray  spare  me  those  classical  allusions,"  burst  out 
Razumov,  nervously.  "What  comes  Junius  Brutus  to 
do  here?  It  is  ridiculous!  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he 
added,  sarcastically,  but  lowering  his  voice,  "that  the 
Russian  revolutionists  are  all  patricians,  and  that  I  am  an 
aristocrat?" 

Peter  Ivanovitch,  who  had  been  helping  himself  with 
a  few  gestures,  clasped  his  hands  again  behind  his  back 
and  made  a  few  steps,  pondering. 

"Not  all  patricians,"  he  muttered  at  last.  "But 
you,  at  any  rate,  are  one  oi  us.'' 

Razumov  smiled  bitterly. 

"  To  be  sure,  my  name  is  not  Gugenheimer,"  he  said,  in 
a  sneering  tone.  "I  am  not  a  democratic  Jew.  How 
can  I  help  it?  Not  everybody  has  such  luck.  I  have 
no  name,  I  have  no  .  .  ." 

The  European  celebrity  showed  a  great  concern.     He 

206 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

stepped  back  a  pace  and  his  arms  flew  in  front  of  his 
person,  extended,  deprecatory,  almost  entreating.  His 
deep  bass  voice  was  full  of  pain. 

**But,  my  dear  young  friend!"  he  cried.  *'My  dear 
Kirylo  Sidorovitch  ..." 

Razumov  shook  his  head. 

"The  very  patronymic  you  are  so  civil  as  to  use  when 
addressing  me  I  have  no  legal  right  to — but  what  of  that  ? 
I  don't  wish  to  claim  it.  I  have  no  father.  So  much 
the  better.  But  I  will  tell  you  what:  my  mother's 
grandfather  was  a  peasant — a  serf.  See  how  much  I  am 
one  of  you.  I  don't  want  any  one  to  claim  me.  But 
Russia  can't  disown  me.     She  cannot!" 

Razumov  struck  his  breast  with  his  fist. 

"I  am  itr' 

Peter  Ivanovitch  walked  on  slowly,  his  head  lowered. 
Razumov  followed,  vexed  with  himself.  That  was  not 
the  right  sort  of  talk.  All  sincerity  was  an  imprudence. 
Yet  one  could  not  renounce  truth  altogether,  he  thought, 
with  despair.  Peter  Ivanovitph,  meditating  behind  his 
dark  glasses,  became  to  him  suddenly  so  odious  that 
if  he  had  had  a  knife  he  fancied  he  could  have  stabbed 
him  not  only  without  compunction,  but  with  a  hor- 
rible, triumphant  satisfaction.  His  imagination  dwelt 
on  that  atrocity  in  spite  of  himself.  It  was  as  if 
he  were  becoming  light-headed.  "It  is  not  what  is 
expected  of  me,"  he  repeated  to  himself.  "It  is  not 
what  is  ...  I  could  get  away  by  breaking  the  fastening 
on  the  little  gate  I  see  there  in  the  back  wall.  It  is  a 
flimsy  lock.  Nobody  in  the  house  seems  to  know  he  is 
here  with  me.  Oh  yes.  The  hat!  These  women  would 
discover  presently  the  hat  he  has  left  on  the  landing. 
They  would  come  upon  him  lying  dead  in  this  damp, 
gloomy  shade — but  I  would  be  gone,  and  no  one  could 
ever  .  .  .  Lord!  Am  I  going  mad?"  he  asked  himself, 
in  a  fright. 

The  great  man  was  heard — musing  in  an  undertone. 

207 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"H'm,  yes!  That — no  doubt — in  a  certain  sense — " 
He  raised  his  voice.  ''There  is  a  deal  of  pride  about 
you — " 

The  intonation  of  Peter  Ivanovitch  took  on  a  homely, 
familiar  ring,  acknowledging,  in  a  way,  Razumov's  claim 
to  peasant  descent. 

"A  great  deal  of  pride.  Brother  Kirylo.  And  I  don't 
say  that  you  have  no  justification  for  it.  I  have  ad- 
mitted you  had.  I  have  ventured  to  allude  to  the  facts 
of  your  birth  simply  because  I  attach  no  mean  impor- 
tance to  it.  You  are  one  of  us — un  des  ndtres.  I  re- 
flect on  that  with  satisfaction." 

"  I  attach  some  importance  to  it,  also,"  said  Razumov, 
quietly.  "I  won't  even  deny  that  it  may  have  some 
importance  for  you,  too,"  he  continued,  after  a  slight 
pause  and  with  a  touch  of  grimness  of  which  he  was  him- 
self aware,  with  some  annoyance.  He  hoped  it  had 
escaped  the  perception  of  Peter  Ivanovitch.  "But  sup- 
pose we  talk  no  more  about  it?" 

"Well,  we  shall  not — not  after  this  one  time,  Kirylo 
Sidorovitch,"  persisted  the  noble  archpriest  of  revolu- 
tion. "This  shall  be  the  last  occasion.  You  cannot  be- 
lieve for  a  moment  that  I  had  the  slightest  idea  of 
wounding  your  feelings.  You  are  clearly  a  superior 
nature — that's  how  I  read  you.  Quite  above  the  com- 
mon— h'm — susceptibilities.  But  the  fact  is,  Kirylo  Si- 
dorovitch, I  don't  know  your  susceptibilities.  Nobody 
out  of  Russia  knows  much  of  you — as  yet!" 

"  You  have  been  watching  me,"  suggested  Razumov. 

"Yes." 

The  great  man  had  spoken  in  a  tone  of  perfect  frank- 
ness, but,  as  they  turned  their  faces  to  each  other, 
Razumov  felt  baffled  by  the  dark  spectacles.  Under 
their  cover  Peter  Ivanovitch  hinted  that  he  had  felt  for 
some  time  the  need  of  meeting  a  man  of  energy  and 
character,  in  view  of  a  certain  project.  He  said  nothing 
more  precise,  however;  and  after  some  critical  remarks 

208 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

upon  the  personalities  of  the  various  members  of  the 
Committee  of  Revolutionary  Action  in  Stuttgart,  he  let 
the  conversation  lapse  for  quite  a  long  while.  They 
paced  the  alley  from  end  to  end.  Razumov,  silent  too, 
raised  his  eyes  from  time  to  time  to  cast  a  glance  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  It  offered  no  sign  of  being  inhabited. 
With  its  grimy  weather-stained  walls  and  all  the  win- 
dows shuttered  from  top  to  bottom,  it  looked  damp  and 
gloomy  and  deserted.  It  might  very  well  have  been 
haunted  in  traditional  style  by  some  doleful,  groaning, 
futile  ghost  of  a  middle-class  order.     The  shades  evoked, 

as  worldly  rumor  had  it,  by  Mme.  de  S ,  to  meet 

statesmen,  diplomatists,  deputies  of  various  European 
parliaments,  must  have  been  of  another  sort.  Raz- 
umov had  never  seen  Mme.  de  S but  in  the  car- 
riage. 

Peter  Ivanovitch  came  out  of  his  abstraction. 

**Two  things  I  may  say  to  you  at  once.  I  believe, 
first,  that  neither  a  leader  nor  any  decisive  action  can 
come  out  of  the  dregs  of  a  people.  Now,  if  you  ask  me 
what  are  the  dregs  of  a  people — h'm — it  would  take  too 
long  to  tell.  You  would  be  surprised  at  the  variety  of 
ingredients  that  for  me  go  to  the  making  up  of  these 
dregs — of  that  which  ought,  must  remain,  at  the  bottom. 
Moreover,  such  a  statement  might  be  subject  to  dis- 
cussion. But  I  can  tell  you  what  is  not  the  dregs.  On 
that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  disagree.  The  peasantry 
of  a  people  is  not  the  dregs ;  neither  is  its  highest  class — 
well — the  nobility.  Reflect  on  that,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch! 
I  believe  you  are  well  fitted  for  reflection.  Everything 
in  a  people  that  is  not  genuine,  not  its  own  by  origin 
or  development,  is — well — dirt!  Intelligence  in  the 
wrong  place  is  that.  Foreign-bred  doctrines  are  that. 
Dirt!  Dregs!  The  second  thing  I  would  offer  to  your 
meditation  is  this:  that  for  us  at  this  moment  there 
yawns  a  chasm  between  the  past  and  the  future.  It 
can  never  be  bridged  by  foreign  liberalism.     All  at- 

209 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

tempts  at  it  are  either  folly  or  cheating.  Bridged  it 
can  never  be  I     It  has  to  be  filled  up." 

A  sort  of  sinister  jocularity  had  crept  into  the  tones 
of  the  burly  feminist.  He  seized  Razumov's  arm  above 
the  elbow  and  gave  it  a  slight  shake. 

*'Do  you  understand,  enigmatical  young  man?  It 
has  got  to  be  just  filled  up." 

Razumov  kept  an  unmoved  countenance. 

''Don't  you  think  that  I  have  already  gone  beyond 
meditation  on  that  subject?"  he  said,  freeing  his  arm 
by  a  quiet  movement  which  increased  the  distance  a  lit- 
tle between  himself  and  Peter  Ivanovitch,  as  they  went 
on  strolling  abreast.  And  he  added  that  surely  whole 
cartloads  of  words  and  theories  could  never  fill  that 
chasm.  No  meditation  was  necessary.  A  sacrifice  of 
many  lives  could  alone  ...  He  fell  silent  without  fin- 
ishing the  phrase. 

Peter  Ivanovitch  inclined  his  big,  hairy  head  slowly, 
and  proposed  that  they  should  go  and  see  if  Mme.  de 
S was  now  visible. 

"We  shall  get  some  tea,"  he  said,  turning  out  of  the 
shaded  gloomy  walk  with  a  brisker  step. 

The  lady  companion  had  been  on  the  lookout.  Her 
dark  skirt  whisked  into  the  doorway  as  the  two  men 
came  in  sight  round  the  corner.  She  ran  off  somewhere 
altogether,  and  had  disappeared  when  they  entered  the 
hall.  In  the  crude  light  falling  from  the  dusty  glass 
skylight  upon  the  black-and-white  tessellated  floor,  cov- 
ered with  muddy  tracks,  their  footsteps  echoed  faintly. 
The  great  feminist  led  the  way  up  the  stairs.  On  the 
balustrade  of  the  first-floor  landing,  a  shiny  tall  hat 
reposed,  rim  upward,  opposite  the  double  door  of  the 
drawing-room,  haunted,  it  was  said,  by  evoked  ghosts, 
and  frequented,  it  was  to  be  supposed,  by  fugitive  revo- 
lutionists. The  cracked  white  paint  of  the  panels,  the 
tarnished  gilt  of  the  moldings,  permitted  one  to  imagine 
nothing  but  dust  and  emptiness  within.     Before  turning 

210 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

the  massive  brass  handle,  Peter  Ivanovitch  gave  his 
young  companion  a  sharp,  partly  critical,  partly  pre- 
paratory glance. 

"No  one  is  perfect,"  he  murmured,  discreetly.  Thus 
the  possessor  of  a  rare  jewel  might,  before  opening  the 
casket,  warn  the  profane  that  no  gem,  perhaps,  is 
flawless. 

He  remained  with  his  hand  on  the  door-handle  so 
long  that  Razumov  assented  by  a  moody  "No." 

"Perfection  itself  would  not  produce  that  effect," 
pursued  Peter  Ivanovitch — "in  a  world  not  meant  for 
it.  But  you  will  find  there  a  mind  —  no!  —  the  quin- 
tessence of  feminine  intuition — which  will  understand 
any  perplexity  you  may  be  suffering  from — by  the  irre- 
sistible, enlightening  force  of  sympathy.  Nothing  can 
remain  obscure  before  that,  that — inspired,  yes,  inspired 
penetration,  this  true  light  of  feminity." 

The  gaze  of  the  dark  spectacles  in  its  glassy  stead- 
fastness gave  his  face  an  air  of  absolute  conviction. 
Razumov  felt  a  momentary  shrinking  before  that 
mysterious  door. 

"  Penetration !  Light !"  he  stammered  out.  "  Do  you 
mean  some  sort  of  thought-reading?" 

Peter  Ivanovitch  seemed  shocked. 

"I  mean  something  utterly  different,",  he  retorted, 
with  a  faint,  pitying  smile. 

Razumov  began  to  feel  angry,  very  much  against  his 
wish. 

"This  is  very  mysterious,"  he  muttered  through  his 
teeth. 

"You  don't  object  to  being  understood,  to  being 
guided?"  queried  the  great  feminist. 

Razumov  exploded  in  a  fierce  whisper: 

"  In  what  sense  ?  Be  pleased  to  understand  that  I  am 
a  serious  person.     Who  do  you  take  me  for?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  very  closely.  Razumov's 
temper  was  cooled  by  the  impenetrable  earnestness  of  the 

211 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

blue  glasses  meeting  his  stare.  Peter  Ivanovitch  turned 
the  handle  at  last. 

**  You  shall  know  directly,"  he  said,  pushing  the  door 
open. 

A  low-pitched  but  harsh  voice  was  heard  within  the 
room. 

"Enfin.     Vous  voila.'^ 

In  the  doorway,  his  black-coated  bulk  blocking  the 
view,  Peter  Ivanovitch  boomed  in  a  hearty  tone,  with 
something  boastful  in  it. 

"Yes!     Here  I  am!" 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  Razumov,  who  waited 
for  him  to  move  on. 

"And  I  am  bringing  you  a  proved  conspirator — a  real 
one  this  time.     Un  vrai  celui-ld,." 

This  pause  in  the  doorway  gave  the  "proved  con- 
spirator" time  to  make  sure  that  his  face  did  not  betray 
his  angry  curiosity  and  his  mental  disgust. 

These  sentiments  stand  confessed  in  Mr.  Razumov's 

memorandum  of  his  first  interview  with  Mme.  de  S . 

The  very  words  I  use  in  my  narrative  are  written  where 
their  sincerity  cannot  be  suspected.  At  any  rate,  the 
sincerity  of  their  self -revealing  intention  cannot  be. 
Out  of  those  pages,  summarizing  months  here,  detailing 
days  there,  with  an  almost  incredible  precision,  out  of 
that  record  of  contradictory,  incoherent  thoughts, 
emerges  a  personality  struggling  for  existence  both 
against  truth  and  falsehood;  a  personality  rising  to  a 
symbolic  significance  by  the  revealing  nature  of  its 
individual  fate.  The  record,  which  could  not  have 
been  meant  for  any  one's  eyes  but  his  own,  was  not,  I 
think,  the  outcome  of  that  strange  impulse  of  indiscre- 
tion, common  to  men  who  lead  secret  lives,  and  ac- 
counting for  the  invariable  existence  of  "compromising 
documents"  in  all  the  plots  and  conspiracies  of  history. 
Mr.  Razumov  looked  at  it,  I  suppose,  as  a  man  looks 
at    himself   in   a   mirror,  with   wonder,  perhaps  with 

212 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

anguish,  with  anger  or  despair.  Yes,  as  a  threatened 
man  may  look  fearfully  at  his  own  face  in  the  glass, 
formulating  to  himself  reassuring  excuses  for  his  ap- 
pearance, marked  by  the  taint  of  some  insidious  he- 
reditary disease. 


II 


THE  Egeria  of  the  ''Russian  Mazzini"  produced,  at 
first  view,  a  strong  effect  by  the  deathUke  immo- 
bility of  an  obviously  painted  face.  The  eyes  appeared 
extraordinarily  brilliant.  The  figure,  in  a  close-fitting 
dress,  admirably  made  but  by  no  means  fresh,  had  an 
elegant  stiffness.  The  harsh  voice,  inviting  him  to 
sit  down,  the  rigidity  of  the  upright  attitude,  with  one 
arm  extended  along  the  back  of  the  sofa;  the  white 
gleam  of  the  big  eyeballs  setting  off  the  black,  fathomless 
stare  of  the  enlarged  pupils,  impressed  Razumov  more 
than  anything  he  had  seen  since  his  hasty  and  secret 
departure  from  St.  Petersburg.  A  witch  in  Parisian 
clothes,  he  thought.  A  portent!  He  actually  hesitated 
in  his  advance,  and  did  not  even  comprehend,  at  first, 
what  the  harsh  voice  was  saying. 

*'  Sit  down.  Draw  your  chair  nearer  me.  There.  .  .  ." 
Razumov  sat  down.  At  close  quarters  the  rouged  cheek- 
bones, the  wrinkles,  the  fine  lines  on  each  side  of  the 
vivid  lips,  astounded  him.  He  was  being  received  gra- 
ciously, with  a  smile  which  made  him  think  of  a  grinning 
skull. 

"We  have  been  hearing  about  you  for  some  time." 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  murmured  some 
disconnected  words.  The  grinning  -  skull  effect  van- 
ished. 

"And  do  you  know  that  the  general  complaint  is  that 
you  have  shown  yourself  very  reserved  everywhere?" 

Razumov  remained  silent  for  a  time,  thinking  of  his 
answer. 

214 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"I,  don't  you  see,  am  a  man  of  action,"  he  said, 
huskily,  glancing  upward. 

Peter  Ivanovitch  stood  in  portentous,  expectant  silence 
by  the  side  of  his  chair.  A  slight  feeling  of  nausea  came 
over  Razumov.  What  could  be  the  relations  of  these 
two  people  to  each  other  ?  She  like  a  galvanized  corpse 
out  of  some  Hoffmann's  tale,  he  the  preacher  of  feminist 
gospels  for  all  the  world  and  a  super-revolutionist  be- 
sides! This  ancient,  painted  mummy,  with  unfathom- 
able eyes,  and  this  burly,  bull-necked,  deferential  .  .  . 
what  was  it?  Witchcraft,  fascination.  ...  "It's  for  her 
money,"  he  thought.     "She  has  millions!" 

The  walls,  the  floor  of  the  room,  were  bare  like  a  bam. 
The  few  pieces  of  furniture  had  been  discovered  in  the 
garrets  and  dragged  down  into  service  without  having 
been  properly  dusted,  even.  It  was  the  refuse  the 
banker's  widow  had  left  behind  her.  The  windows,  with- 
out curtains,  had  an  indigent,  sleepless  look.  In  two  of 
them  the  dirty,  yellowy- white  blinds  had  been  pulled 
down.  All  this  spoke,  not  of  poverty,  but  of  sordid 
penuriousness. 

The  hoarse  voice  on  the  sofa  spoke  angrily: 

"You  are  looking  round,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch.  I  have 
been  shamefully  robbed,  positively  ruined." 

A  rattling  laugh,  which  seemed  beyond  her  control, 
interrupted  her  for  a  moment. 

"A  slavish  nature  would  find  consolation  in  the  fact 
that  the  principal  robber  was  an  exalted  and  almost  a 
sacrosanct  person — a  grand  duke,  in  fact.  Do  you  un- 
derstand, Mr.  Razumov?  A  grand  duke.  No!  You 
have  no  idea  what  thieves  those  people  are!  Down- 
right thieves!" 

Her  bosom  heaved,  but  the  arm  remained  rigidly  ex- 
tended along  the  back  of  the  couch. 

"You  will  only  upset  yourself,"  breathed  out  a  deep 
voice,  which,  to  Razumov's  startled  glance,  seemed  to 
proceed  from  under  the  steady  spectacles  of  Peter 
15  215 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Ivanovitch,  rather  than  from  his  lips,  which  had  hardly 
moved. 

"What  of  that?     I  say  thieves!     Voleursf     Voleursf 

Razumov  was  quite  confounded  by  this  unexpected 
clamor,  which  had  in  it  something  of  wailing  and  croak- 
ing and  more  than  a  suspicion  of  hysteria. 

''Voleursf     Voleursf     Vol  ..." 

**No  power  on  earth  can  rob  you  of  your  genius," 
shouted  Peter  Ivanovitch,  in  an  overpowering  bass,  but 
without  stirring,  without  a  gesture  of  any  kind.  A 
profound  silence  fell. 

Razumov  remained  outwardly  impassive.  ''What  is 
the  meaning  of  this  performance?"  he  was  asking  him- 
self. But,  with  a  preliminary  sound  of  bumping  outside 
some  door  behind  him,  the  lady  companion,  in  a  thread- 
bare black  skirt  and  frayed  blouse,  came  in  rapidly, 
walking  on  her  heels,  and  carrying  in  both  hands  a  big 
Russian  samovar,  obviously  too  heavy  for  her.  Razu- 
mov made  an  instinctive  movement  to  help,  which 
startled  her  so  much  that  she  nearly  dropped  her  hissing 
burden.  She  managed,  however,  to  land  it  on  the 
table,  and  looked  so  frightened  that  Razumov  hastened 
to  sit  down.  She  produced,  then,  from  an  adjacent 
room,  four  glass  tumblers,  a  tea-pot,  and  a  sugar-basin 
on  a  black  iron  tray. 

The  harsh  voice  spoke  from  the  sofa  abruptly: 

'*Les  gdteauxf  Have  you  remembered  to  bring  the 
cakes?" 

Peter  Ivanovitch,  without  a  word,  marched  out  onto 
the  landing  and  returned  instantly  with  a  parcel  wrapped 
up  in  white  glazed  paper  w^hich  he  must  have  extracted 
from  the  interior  of  his  hat.  With  imperturbable 
gravity  he  undid  the  string-  and  smoothed  the  paper 
open  on  a  part  of  the  table  within  reach  of  Mme.  de 

S 's   hand.     The  lady  companion   poured  out  the 

tea,  then  retired  into  a  distant  corner  out  of  everybody's 
sight,  and  a  conversation  began.     From  time  to  time 

216 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Mme.  de  S extended  a   clawlike   hand    glittering 

with  costly  rings  toward  the  paper  of  cakes,  took  up  one 
and  devoured  it,  displaying  her  big  false  teeth  ghoulishly. 
Meantime,  she  talked  in  a  hoarse  tone  of  the  political 
situation  in  the  Balkans.  She  built  great  hopes  on  some 
complication  in  the  Peninsula  for  arousing  a  great  move- 
ment of  national  indignation  in  Russia  against  "these 
thieves — thieves — thieves. '  * 

"You  will  only  upset  yourself,"  Peter  Ivanovitch  in- 
terposed, raising  his  glassy  gaze.  He  smoked  cigarettes 
and  drank  tea  in  silence,  continuously.  When  he  had 
finished  a  glass  he  flourished  his  hand  in  a  beckoning 
manner  above  his  shoulder.  At  that  signal  the  lady  com- 
panion, ensconced  in  her  corner,  with  round  eyes  like  a 
watchful  animal,  would  dart  out  to  the  table  and  pour 
him  out  another  tumblerful. 

Razumov  looked  at   her  once   or  twice.      She  was 

anxious,  tremulous,  though  neither  Mme.  de  S nor 

Peter  Ivanovitch  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  her. 
"What  have  they  done  between  them  to  that  forlorn 
creature?"  Razumov  asked  himself.  "Have  they  terri- 
fied her  out  of  her  senses  with  ghosts  or  simply  have  they 
only  been  beating  her?"  When  she  gave  him  his  second 
glass  of  tea  he  noticed  that  her  lips  trembled  in  the 
manner  of  a  scared  person  about  to  burst  into  speech. 
But,  of  course,  she  said  nothing  and  retired  into  her 
corner,  as  if  hugging  to  herself  the  smile  of  thanks  he 
gave  her. 

"She  may  be  worth  cultivating,"  thought  Razumov, 
suddenly. 

He  was  calming  down,  getting  hold  of  the  actuality 
into  which  he  had  been  thrown — for  the  first  time,  per- 
haps, since  Victor  Haldin  had  entered  his  room,  and 
had  gone  out  again.     He  was  distinctly  aware  of  being 

the  object  of  the  famous — or  notorious — Mme.  de  S *s 

ghastly  graciousness. 

Mme.  de  S was  pleased  to  discover  that  this  young 

217 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

man  was  different  from  the  other  types  of  revolutionist 
members  of  committees,  secret  emissaries,  vulgar  and 
unmannerly  fugitive  professors,  rough  students,  ex- 
cobblers  with  apostolic  faces,  consumptive  and  ragged 
enthusiasts,  Jewish  youths,  common  fellows  of  all  sorts 
that  used  to  come  and  go  around  Peter  Ivanovitch — 
fanatics,  pedants,  proletarians  all.  It  was  possible  to 
talk  to  this  young  man  of  notably  good  appearance — for 

Mme.  de  S was  not  always  in  a  mystical  state  of 

mind.  Razumov's  taciturnity  only  excited  her  to  a 
quicker,  more  voluble  utterance.  It  still  dealt  with  the 
Balkans.  She  knew  all  the  statesmen  of  that  region — 
Turks,  Bulgarians,  Montenegrins,  Roumanians,  Greeks, 
Armenians,  and  nondescripts,  young  and  old,  the  living 
and  the  dead.  With  some  money  an  intrigue  could  be 
started  which  would  set  the  Peninsula  in  a  blaze  and  out- 
rage the  sentiment  of  the  Russian  people.  A  cry  of 
abandoned  brothers  could  be  raised,  and  then  with  the 
nation  seething  with  indignation  a  couple  of  regiments  or 
so  would  be  enough  to  begin  a  military  revolution  in  St. 
Petersburg  and  make  an  end  of  these  thieves.   .   .   . 

"  Apparently  I've  got  only  to  sit  still  and  listen,"  the 
silent  Razumov  thought  to  himself.  "As  to  that  hairy 
and  obscene  brute  "  (in  such  terms  did  Mr.  Razumov 
refer  mentally  to  the  popular  expounder  of  a  feministic 
conception  of  social  state),  "as  to  him,  for  all  his  cun- 
ning, he  too  shall  speak  out  at  last." 

Razumov  ceased  to  think  for  a  moment.  Then  a 
somber-toned  reflection  formulated  itself  to  his  mind, 
ironical  and  bitter.  "I  have  the  gift  of  inspiring  con- 
fidence." He  heard  himself  laughing  aloud.  It  was 
like  a  goad  to  the  painted,  shiny-eyed  harridan  on  the 
sofa. 

"You  may  well  laugh!"  she  cried,  hoarsely.  "What 
else  can  one  do  ?  Perfect  swindlers,  and  what  base  swin- 
dlers at  that !  Cheap  Germans  —  Holstein  -  Gottorps ! 
Though,  indeed,  it's  hardly  safe  to  say  who  and  what 

218 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

they  are.  A  family  that  counts  a  creature  like  Cath- 
erine the  Great  in  its  ancestry — you  understand!" 

"You  are  only  upsetting  yourself,"  said  Peter  Ivano- 
vitch,  patiently,  but  in  a  firm  tone.  This  admonition 
had  its  usual  effect  on  the  Egeria.  She  dropped  her 
thick,  discolored  eyelids  and  changed  her  position  on 
the  sofa.  All  her  angular  and  lifeless  movements 
seemed  completely  automatic  now  that  her  eyes  were 
closed.  Presently  she  opened  them  very  full.  Peter 
Ivanovitch  drank  tea  steadily,  without  haste. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  She  addressed  Razumov  directly: 
"The  people  who  have  seen  you  on  your  way  here  are 
right.  You  are  very  reserved.  You  haven't  said  twenty 
words  altogether  since  you  came  in.  You  let  nothing 
of  your  thoughts  be  seen  in  your  face  either." 

"I  have  been  listening,  madame,"  said  Razumov, 
using  French  for  the  first  time,  hesitatingly,  not  being 
certain  of  his  accent.  But  it  seemed  to  produce  an  ex- 
cellent impression.     Mme.  de  S looked  meaningly 

into  Peter  Ivanovitch's  spectacles  as  if  to  convey  her 
conviction  of  this  young  man's  merit.  She  even  nodded 
the  least  bit  in  his  direction,  and  Razumov  heard  her 
murmur  under  her  breath  the  words  "later  on  in  the 
diplomatic  service,"  which  could  not  but  refer  to  the 
favorable  impression  he  had  made.  The  fantastic  ab- 
surdity of  it  revolted  him,  because  it  seemed  to  out- 
rage his  ruined  hopes  with  the  vision  of  a  mock  career. 
Peter  Ivanovitch,  impassive  as  though  he  were  deaf, 
drank  some  more  tea.  Razumov  felt  that  he  must  say 
something. 

"Yes,"  he  began,  deliberately,  as  if  uttering  a  medi- 
tated opinion.  "Clearly.  Even  in  planning  a  purely 
military  revolution,  the  temper  of  the  people  should  be 
taken  into  account." 

"You  have  understood  me  perfectly.  The  discon- 
tent should  be  spiritualized.  That  is  what  the  ordinary 
head  of  revolutionary  committees  will  not  understand. 

219 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

They  aren't  capable  of  it.  For  instance,  Mordatiev  was 
in  Geneva  last  month.  Peter  Ivanovitch  brought  him 
here.  You  know  Mordatiev?  Well,  yes — you  have 
heard.  They  call  him  an  eagle — a  hero!  He  has  never 
done  half  as  much  as  you  have.  Never  attempted — 
not  half.  ..." 

Mme.  de  S agitated  herself  angularly  on  the  sofa. 

"We,  of  course,  talked  to  him.  And  do  you  know 
what  he  said  to  me  ?  '  What  have  we  to  do  with  Balkan 
intrigues?  We  must  simply  extirpate  the  scoundrels.' 
Extirpate  is  all  very  well — ^but  what  then?  The  im- 
becile! I  screamed  at  him,  but  you  must  spiritualize — 
don't  you  understand — spiritualize  the  discontent.  ..." 

She  felt  nervously  in  her  pocket  for  a  handkerchief; 
she  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 

"Spiritualize?"  said  Razuraov,  interrogatively,  watch- 
ing her  heaving  breast.  The  long  ends  of  an  old  black 
lace  scarf  she  wore  over  her  head  slipped  off  her  shoul- 
ders and  hung  down  on  each  side  of  her  ghastly,  rosy 
cheeks. 

"An  odious  creature,"  she  burst  out  again.  "Imag- 
ine a  man  who  takes  five  lumps  of  sugar  in  his  tea.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  said  spiritualize!  How  else  can  you  make  dis- 
content effective  and  universal?" 

"Listen  to  this,  young  man,"  Peter  Ivanovitch  made 
himself  heard,  solemnly. 

Razumov  looked  at  him  suspiciously. 

"Effective  and  universal?  Eh?  Some  say  hunger 
will  do  that,"  he  remarked. 

"Yes.  I  know.  Our  people  are  starving  in  heaps. 
But  you  can't  make  famine  universal.  And  it  is  not 
despair  that  we  want  to  create.  There  is  no  moral  sup- 
port to  be  got  out  of  that.     It  is  indignation.  ..." 

Mme.  de  S let  her  thin,  extended  arm  sink  on  her 

knees. 

"I  am  not  a  Mordatiev,"  began  Razumov. 

"Bien  sHr!**  murmured  Mme.  de  S . 

220 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Though  I,  too,  am  ready  to  say  extirpate,  extirpate. 
But,  in  my  ignorance  of  poHtical  work,  permit  me  to 
ask:  A  Balkan — well — intrigue,  wouldn't  that  take  a 
very  long  time?" 

Peter  Ivanovitch  got  up  and  moved  off  quietly  to 
stand  with  his  face  to  the  window.  Razumov  heard  a 
door  close;  he  turned  his  head  and  perceived  that  the 
lady  companion  had  scuttled  out  of  the  room. 

*'  In  matters  of  politics  I  am  a  supematuralist."  Mme. 
de  S broke  the  silence,  harshly. 

Peter  Ivanovitch  moved  away  from  the  window  and 
struck  Razumov  lightly  on  the  shoulder.  This  was  a 
signal  for  leaving,  but  at  the  same  time  he  addressed 
Mme.  de  S in  a  peculiar,  reminding  tone: 

"Eleanor!" 

Whatever  it  meant,  she  did  not  seem  to  hear  him. 
She  leaned  back  in  the  comer  of  the  sofa  like  a  wooden 
figure.  The  immovable  peevishness  of  the  face  framed 
in  the  limp,  rusty  lace  had  a  character  of  cruelty. 

"As  to  extirpating,"  she  croaked  at  the  attentive 
Razumov,  "there  is  only  one  class  in  Russia  which  must 
be  extirpated.  Only  one.  And  that  class  consists  of 
only  one  family.  You  understand  me?  That  one 
family  must  be  extirpated." 

Her  rigidity  was  frightful,  like  the  rigor  of  a  corpse 
galvanized  into  harsh  speech  and  glittering  stare  by  the 
force  of  murderous  hate.  The  sight  fascinated  Razumov 
— yet  he  felt  more  self-possessed  at  that  moment  than 
at  any  other  since  he  had  entered  that  weirdly  bare 
room.  He  was  interested.  But  the  great  feminist  by 
his  side  again  uttered  his  appeal: 

"Eleanor!" 

She  disregarded  it.  Her  carmine  lips  moved  with  an 
extraordinary  rapidity.  She  vaticinated.  The  liberat- 
ing spirit  would  use  arms  before  which  rivers  would  part 
like  Jordan  and  ramparts  fall  down  like  the  walls  of 
Jericho.     The  deliverance  from  bondage  would  be  ef- 

221 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

fected  by  plagues  and  by  signs,  by  wonders  and  by 
war.     The  women  .  .  . 

''Eleanor!" 

She  ceased;  she  had  heard  him  at  last.  She  pressed 
her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

"  What  is  it  ?     Ah,  yes !     That  girl — the  sister  of  .  .  ." 

It  was  Miss  Haldin  that  she  meant.  That  young  girl 
and  her  mother  had  been  leading  a  very  retired  life. 
They  were  provincial  ladies — were  they  not?  The 
mother  had  been  very  beautiful — traces  were  left  yet. 
Peter  Ivanovitch,  when  he  called  there  for  the  first  time, 
was  greatly  struck.  .  .  .  But  the  cold  way  they  received 
him  was  really  surprising. 

"He  is  one  of  our  national  glories,"  Mme.  de  S 

cried  out,  with  sudden  vehemence.  "All  the  world 
listens  to  him." 

"I  don't  know  these  ladies,"  said  Razumov,  loudly, 
rising  from  his  chair. 

"What  are  you  saying,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch?  I  under- 
stand that  she  was  talking  to  you  here,  in  the  garden,  the 
other  day." 

"  Yes,  in  the  garden,"  said  Razumov,  gloomily.  Then, 
with  an  effort,  "She  made  herself  known  to  me." 

"  And  then  ran  away  from  us  all,"  Mme.  de  S con- 
tinued, with  ghastly  vivacity.  "After  coming  to  the 
very  door!  What  a  peculiar  proceeding!  Well,  I  was 
a  shy  little  provincial  girl  at  one  time.  Yes,  Razu- 
mov" (she  fell  into  this  familiarity  intentionally,  with 
an  appalling  grimace  of  graciousness.  Razumov  gave  a 
perceptible  start).  Yes,  that's  my  origin.  A  simple 
provincial  family." 

"  You  are  wonderful,"  Peter  Ivanovitch  uttered,  in  his 
deepest  voice. 

But  it  was  to  Razumov  that  she  gave  her  death's-head 
smile.     Her  tone  was  quite  imperious. 

"You  must  bring  the  young,  wild  thing  here.  She  is 
wanted,     I  reckon  upon  your  success — mindl'l 

99Z 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"She  is  not  a  wild  young  thing,"  muttered  Razumov, 
in  a  surly  voice. 

"Well,  then — that's  all  the  same.  She  may  be  one  of 
those  young  conceited  democrats.  Do  you  know  what  I 
think?  I  think  she  is  very  much  like  you  in  character. 
There  is  a  smouldering  fire  of  scorn  in  you.  You  are 
darkly  self-sufficient,  but  I  can  see  your  very  soul." 

Her  shiny  eyes  had  a  dry,  intense  stare,  which,  missing 
Razumov,  gave  him  an  absurd  notion  that  she  was  look- 
ing at  something  behind  him.  He  cursed  himself  for  an 
impressionable  fool,  and  spoke  with  forced  calmness. 

"What  is  it  you  see?     Anything  resembling  me?" 

She  moved  her  rigidly  set  face  from  left  to  right  nega- 
tively. 

"Some  sort  of  phantom  in  my  image?"  pursued 
Razumov,  slowly.  "For,  I  suppose,  a  soul  when  it  is 
seen  is  just  that.  A  vain  thing.  There  are  phantoms 
of  the  living  as  well  as  of  the  dead." 

The  tenseness  of  Mme.  de  S 's  stare  had  relaxed, 

and  now  she  looked  at  Razumov  in  a  silence  that  be- 
came disconcerting. 

"  I  myself  have  had  an  experience,"  he  stammered  out, 
as  if  compelled.     "I've  seen  a  phantom." 

The  unnaturally  red  lips  moved  to  frame  a  question 
harshly. 

"Of  a  dead  person?'! 

"No.     Living." 

"A  friend?" 

"No." 

"An  enemy?" 

"I  hated  him." 

"Ah!     It  was  not  a  woman,  then?" 

"A   woman!"   repeated    Razumov,   his  eyes  looking 

straight  into  the  eyes  of  Mme.  de  S .     "Why  should 

it  have  been  a  woman  ?  And  why  this  conclusion  ?  Why 
should  I  not  have  been  able  to  hate  a  woman?" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  idea  of  hating  a  woman  was 
223 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

new  to  him.     At  that  moment  he  hated  Mme.  de  S . 

But  it  was  not  exactly  hate.  It  was  more  like  the  ab- 
horrence that  may  be  caused  by  a  wooden  or  plaster 
figure  of  a  repulsive  kind.  And  she  moved  no  more  than 
if  she  were  such  a  figure;  even  her  eyes,  whose  unwinking 
stare  plunged  into  his  own,  though  shining,  were  lifeless 
as  though  they  were  as  artificial  as  her  teeth.  For  the 
first  time  Razumov  became  aware  of  a  faint  perfume; 
but,  faint  as  it  was,  it  nauseated  him  exceedingly.  Peter 
Ivanovitch  tapped  him  slightly  on  the  shoulder.  There- 
upon he  bowed,  and  was  about  to  turn  away  when  he 
received  the  unexpected  favor  of  a  bony,  inanimate  hand 
extended  to  him,  with  the  two  words  in  hoarse  French: 

'' Au  revoirf' 

He  bowed  over  the  skeleton  hand  and  left  the  room 
escorted  by  the  great  man,  who  made  him  go  out  first. 
The  voice  from  the  sofa  cried  after  them: 

"You  remain  here,  Pierre.'' 

**  Certainly — ma  chere  amie.'* 

But  he  left  the  room  with  Razumov,  shutting  the  door 
behind  him.  The  landing  was  prolonged  into  a  bare, 
unfurnished  corridor,  right  and  left,  desolate  perspec- 
tives of  white-and-gold  decoration,  without  a  strip  of 
carpet.  The  very  light,  pouring  through  a  large  win- 
dow at  the  end,  seemed  dusty;  and  a  solitary  speck  re- 
posing on  the  balustrade  of  white  marble — the  silk  top- 
hat  of  the  great  feminist — asserted  itself  extremely  black 
and  glossy  in  all  that  crude  whiteness. 

Peter  Ivanovitch  escorted  the  visitor  without  open- 
ing his  lips.  Even  when  they  had  reached  the  head  of 
the  stairs,  Peter  Ivanovitch  did  not  break  the  silence. 
Razumov's  impulse  to  continue  down  the  flight  and 
out  of  the  house  without  as  much  as  a  nod  abandoned 
him  suddenly.  He  stopped  on  the  first  step  and  leaned 
his  back  against  the  wall.  Below  him  the  great  hall, 
with  its  checkered  floor  of  black  and  white,  seemed 
absurdly  large  and  like  some  public  place  where  a  great 

224 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

power  of  resonance  awaits  the  provocation  of  foot- 
falls and  voices.  As  if  afraid  of  awakening  the  loud 
echoes  of  that  empty  house,  Razumov  adopted  a  low 
tone. 

"I  really  have  no  mind  to  turn  into  a  dilettante 
spiritualist." 

Peter  Ivanovitch  shook  his  head  slightly,  very  serious. 

"Or  spend  my  time  in  spiritual  ecstasies  or  sublime 
meditations  upon  the  gospel  of  feminism,"  continued 
Razumov.  "I  made  my  way  here  for  my  share  of  ac- 
tion— action,  most  respected  Peter  Ivanovitch!  It  was 
not  the  great  European  writer  who  attracted  me,  here, 
to  this  odious  town  of  liberty.  It  was  somebody  much 
greater.  It  was  the  idea  of  the  chief  which  attracted 
me.  There  are  starving  young  men  in  Russia  who  be- 
lieve in  you  so  much  that  it  seems  the  only  thing  that 
keeps  them  alive  in  their  misery.  Think  of  that,  Peter 
Ivanovitch!     No!     But  only  think  of  that!" 

The  great  man,  thus  entreated,  perfectly  motionless 
and  silent,  was  the  very  image  of  patient,  placid  re- 
spectability. 

"Of  course,  I  don't  speak  of  the  people.  They  are 
brutes,"  added  Razumov,  in  the  same  subdued  but 
forcible  tone.  At  this,  a  protesting  murmur  issued 
from  the  "heroic  fugitive's"  beard.  A  murmur  of 
authority. 

"Say— children." 

"No!     Brutes!"   Razumov  insisted,  bluntly. 

"But  they  are  sound;  they  are  innocent,"  the  great 
man  pleaded  in  a  whisper. 

"  As  far  as  that  goes  a  brute  is  sound  enough."  Razu- 
mov raised  his  voice  at  last.  "And  you  can't  deny  the 
natural  innocence  of  a  brute.  But  what's  the  use  of 
disputing  about  names.  You  just  try  to  give  to  children 
the  power  and  stature  of  men  and  see  what  they  will 
be  like.  You  just  give  it  to  them  and  see!  .  .  .  But 
never  mind;    I  tell  you,  Peter  Ivanovitch,  that  half  a 

225 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

dozen  young  men  do  not  come  together  nowadays  in  a 
shabby  student's  room  without  your  name  being  whis- 
pered, not  as  a  leader  of  thought,  but  as  a  center  of 
revolutionary  energies  —  the  center  of  action.  What 
else  has  drawn  me  near  you,  do  you  think?  It  is  not 
what  all  the  world  knows  of  you,  surely.  It's  precisely 
what  the  world  at  large  does  not  know.  I  was  irre- 
sistibly drawn — let  us  say  impelled,  yes,  impelled;  or 
rather  compelled,  driven — driven,"  repeated  Razumov, 
loudly,  and  ceased,  as  if  startled  by  the  hollow  rever- 
beration of  the  word  "driven"  along  two  bare  corridors 
and  in  the  great  empty  hall. 

Peter  Ivanovitch  did  not  seem  startled  in  the  least. 
The  young  man  could  not  control  a  dry,  uneasy  laugh. 
The  great  revolutionist  remained  unmoved  with  an  effect 
of  commonplace,  homely  superiority. 

"Curse  him,"  said  Razumov  to  himself;  "he  is  wait- 
ing behind  his  spectacles  for  me  to  give  myself  away." 
Then  aloud,  with  a  satanic  enjoyment  of  the  scorn 
prompting  him  to  play  with  the  greatness  of  the  great 
man: 

"Ah,  Peter  Ivanovitch,  if  you  only  knew  the  force 
which  drew — no,  which  drove  me  toward  you!  The  ir- 
resistible force." 

He  did  not  feel  any  desire  to  laugh  now.  This  time 
Peter  Ivanovitch  moved  his  head  sideways,  knowingly, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "Don't  I?"  This  expressive  move- 
ment was  almost  imperceptible.  Razumov  went  on 
in  secret  derision: 

"All  these  days  you  have  been  trying  to  read  me, 
Peter  Ivanovitch.  That  is  natural.  I  have  perceived 
it  and  I  have  been  frank.  Perhaps  you  may  think  I 
have  not  been  very  expansive?  But  with  a  man  like 
you  it  was  not  needed,  it  would  have  looked  like  an  im- 
pertinence, perhaps.  And,  besides,  we  Russians  are 
prone  to  talk  too  much  as  a  rule.  I  have  always  felt 
that.     And  yet,  as  a  nation,  we  are  dumb.     I  assure 

226 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

you  that  I  am  not  likely  to  talk  to  you  so  much  again. 
Ha!  ha!" 

Razumov,  still  keeping  on  the  lower  step,  came  a  little 
nearer  to  the  great  man. 

**  You  have  been  condescending  enough.  I  quite  un- 
derstand it  was  to  lead  me  on.  You  must  render  me 
the  justice  that  I  have  not  tried  to  please.  I  have  been 
impelled,  compelled,  or  rather  sent — let  us  say  sent — 
toward  you  for  a  work  that  no  one  but  myself  can  do. 
You  would  call  it  a  harmless  delusion;  a  ridiculous  de- 
lusion, at  which  you  don't  even  smile.  It  is  absurd  of 
me  to  talk  like  this,  yet  some  day  you  shall  remember 
these  words,  I  hope.  Enough  of  this.  Here  I  stand 
before  you — confessed !  But  one  thing  more  I  must  add 
to  complete  it:  a  mere  blind  tool  I  can  never  consent 
to  be." 

Whatever  acknowledgment  Razumov  was  prepared 
for,  he  was  not  prepared  to  have  both  his  hands  seized  in 
the  great  man's  grasp.  The  swiftness  of  the  movement 
was  aggressive  enough  to  startle.  The  burly  feminist 
could  not  have  been  quicker  had  his  purpose  been  to 
jerk  Razumov  treacherously  up  on  the  landing  and 
bundle  him  behind  one  of  the  numerous  closed  doors 
near  by.  This  idea  actually  occurred  to  Razumov. 
His  hands  being  released  after  a  darkly  eloquent 
squeeze,  he  smiled  with  a  beating  heart  straight  ac 
the  beard  and  the  spectacles  hiding  that  impenetrable 
man. 

He  thought  to  himself  (it  stands  confessed  in  his  hand- 
writing) :  "I  won't  move  from  here  till  he  either  speaks 
or  turns  away.  This  is  a  duel."  Many  seconds  passed 
without  a  sign  or  a  sound. 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  great  man  said,  hurriedly,  in  subdued 
tones,  as  if  the  whole  thing  had  been  a  stolen,  breathless 
interview.  "Exactly.  Come  to  see  us  here  in  a  few 
days.  This  must  be  gone  into  deeply — deeply,  between 
you  and  me.    Quite  to  the  bottom.    To  the  .  .  .  and, 

227 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

by-the-by,  you  must  bring  along  Natalia  Viktorovna — 
you  know,  the  Hal  din  girl.   ..." 

**  Am  I  to  take  this  as  my  first  instruction  from  you?" 
inquired  Razumov,  stiffly. 

Peter  Ivanovitch  seemed  perplexed  by  this  new  at- 
titude. 

"Ah!  h'm!  You  are  naturally  the  proper  person — 
la  per  Sonne  indiquee.  Every  one  shall  be  wanted  pres- 
ently.    Every  one." 

He  bent  down  from  the  landing  over  Razumov,  who 
had  lowered  his  eyes. 

"The  moment  of  action  approaches,"  he  murmured. 

Razumov  did  not  look  up.  He  did  not  move  till  he 
heard  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  close  behind  the 
greatest  of  feminists  returning  to  his  painted  Egeria. 
Then  he  walked  down  slowly  into  the  hall.  The  door 
stood  open,  and  the  shadow  of  the  house  was  lying  aslant 
over  the  greatest  part  of  the  terrace.  While  crossing  it 
slowly  he  lifted  his  hat  and  wiped  his  damp  forehead, 
expelling  his  breath  with  force  to  get  rid  of  the  last  ves- 
tiges of  the  air  he  had  been  breathing  inside.  He  looked 
at  the  palms  of  his  hands  and  rubbed  them  gently 
against  his  thighs. 

He  felt,  bizarre  as  it  may  seem,  as  though  another 
self,  an  independent  sharer  of  his  mind,  had  been  able  to 
view  his  whole  person  very  distinctly  indeed.  "This  is 
curious,"  he  thought.  After  a  while  he  formulated  his 
opinion  of  it  in  the  mental  ejaculation,  "Beastly!" 
This  disgust  vanished  before  a  marked  uneasiness.  "  This 
is  an  effect  of  nervous  exhaustion,"  he  reflected,  with 
weary  sagacity.  "How  am  I  to  go  on  day  after  day  if 
I  have  no  more  power  of  resistance — moral  resistance?" 

He  followed  the  path  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace. 
"Moral  resistance,  moral  resistance,"  he  kept  on  re- 
peating these  words  mentally.  Moral  endurance.  Yes, 
that  was  the  necessity  of  the  situation.  An  immense 
longing  to  make  his  way  out   of  these  grounds  and 

228 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

to  the  other  end  of  the  town,  of  throwing  himself  on  his 
bed  and  going  to  sleep  for  hours,  swept  everything  clean 
out  of  his  mind  for  a  moment.  "Is  it  possible  that  I 
am  but  a  weak  creature,  after  all?"  he  asked  himself,  in 
sudden  alarm.     "Eh!     What's  that?" 

He  gave  a  start  as  if  awakened  from  a  dream.  He 
even  swayed  a  little  before  recovering  himself. 

"Ah!  You  stole  away  from  us  quietly  to  walk  about 
here,"  he  said. 

The  lady  companion  stood  before  him,  but  how  she 
came  there  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea.  Her  folded 
arms  were  closely  cherishing  the  cat. 

"I  have  been  unconscious  as  I  walked,  it's  a  positive 
fact,"  said  Razumov  to  himself  in  wonder.  He  raised 
his  hat  with  marked  civility. 

The  sallow  woman  blushed  duskily.  She  had  her 
invariably  scared  expression,  as  if  somebody  had  just 
disclosed  to  her  some  terrible  news.  But  she  held  her 
ground,  Razumov  noticed,  without  timidity.  "She  is 
incredibly  shabby,"  he  thought.  In  the  sunlight  her 
black  costume  looked  greenish,  with  here  and  there 
threadbare  patches  where  the  stuff  seemed  decomposed 
by  age  into  a  velvety,  black,  furry  state.  Her  very 
hair  and  eyebrows  looked  shabby.  Razumov  wondered 
whether  she  were  sixty  years  old.  Her  figure,  though, 
was  young  enough.  He  observed  that  she  did  not  ap- 
pear starved,  but  rather  as  though  she  had  been  fed  on 
unwholesome  scraps  and  leavings  of  plates. 

Razumov  smiled  amiably  and  moved  out  of  her  way. 
She  turned  her  head  to  keep  her  scared  eyes  on 
him. 

"I  know  what  you  have  been  told  in  there,"  she 
affirmed,  without  preliminaries.  Her  tone,  in  contrast 
with  her  manner,  had  an  unexpectedly  assured  character 
which  put  Razumov  at  his  ease. 

"Do  you?  You  must  have  heard  all  sorts  of  talk  on 
many  occasions  in  there." 

229 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

She  varied  her  phrase  with  the  same  incongruous 
effect  of  positiveness. 

"I  know  to  a  certainty  what  you  have  been  told  to 
do." 

"Really?"  Razumov  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little. 
He  was  about  to  pass  on  with  a  bow,  when  a  sudden 
thought  struck  him.  *'Yes.  To  be  sure!  In  your 
confidential  position  you  are  aware  of  many  things," 
he  murmured,  looking  at  the  cat. 

The  animal  got  a  momentary  convulsive  hug  from 
the  lady  companion. 

"Everything  was  disclosed  to  me  a  long  time  ago," 
she  said. 

"Everything,"  Razumov  repeated,  absently. 

"Peter  Ivanovitch  is  an  awful  despot,"  she  jerked 
out. 

Razumov  went  on  studying  the  stripes  on  the  gray  fur 
of  the  cat. 

"An  iron  will  is  an  integral  part  of  such  a  tempera- 
ment. How  else  could  he  be  a  leader?  And  I  think 
that  you  are  mistaken  in — " 

"There!"  she  cried.  "He  tells  me  that  I  am  mis- 
taken. But  I  tell  you,  all  the  same,  that  he  cares  for  no 
one."  She  jerked  her  head  up.  "  Don't  you  bring  that 
girl  here.  That's  what  you  have  been  told  to  do — to 
bring  that  girl  here.  Listen  to  me;  you  had  better  tie 
a  stone  round  her  neck  and  throw  her  into  the  lake." 

Razumov  had  a  sensation  of  chill  and  gloom,  as  if  a 
heavy  cloud  had  passed  over  the  sun. 

"The  girl?"  he  said.     "What  have  I  to  do  with  her?" 

"But  you  have  been  told  to  bring  Nathalie  Hal  din 
here.  Am  I  not  right?  Of  course  I  am  right.  I  was 
not  in  the  room,  but  I  know.  I  know  Peter  Ivanovitch 
sufficiently  well.  He  is  a  great  man.  Great  men  are 
horrible.  Well,  that's  it.  Have  nothing  to  do  with  her. 
That's  the  best  you  can  do,  unless  you  want  her  to  be- 
come like  me — disillusioned!     Disillusioned!" 

230 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Like  you,"  repeated  Razumov,  glaring  at  her  face, 
as  devoid  of  all  comeliness  of  feature  and  complexion  as 
the  most  miserable  beggar  is  of  money.  He  smiled,  still 
feeling  chilly,  a  peculiar  sensation  which  annoyed  him. 
**  Disillusioned  as  to  Peter  Ivanovitch.  Is  that  all  you 
have  lost?" 

She  declared,  looking  frightened,  but  with  immense 
conviction,  "Peter  Ivanovitch  stands  for  everything." 
Then  she  added,  in  another  tone,  "Keep  the  girl  away 
from  this  house." 

"And  are  you  absolutely  inciting  me  to  disobey  Peter 
Ivanovitch  just  because — ^because  you  are  disillusioned  ?" 

She  began  to  blink. 

"Directly  I  saw  you  for  the  first  time  I  was  com- 
forted. You  took  your  hat  off  to  me.  You  looked  as 
if  one  could  trust  you.     Oh!" 

She  shrank  before  Razumov's  savage  snarl  of,  "I 
have  heard  something  like  this  before." 

She  was  so  confounded  that  she  could  do  nothing  but 
blink  for  a  long  time. 

"  It  was  your  humane  manner,"  she  explained,  plain- 
tively. "  I  have  been  starving  for,  I  won't  say  kindness, 
but  just  for  a  little  civility,  for  I  don't  know  how  long. 
And  now  you  are  angry  ..." 

"But  no,  on  the  contrary,"  he  protested.  "I  am 
very  glad  you  trust  me.  It's  possible  that  later  on  I 
may  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  if  you  were  to  get  ill,"  she  interrupted,  eagerly, 
"or  meet  some  bitter  trouble,  you  would  find  I  am  not 
a  useless  fool.  You  have  only  to  let  me  know.  I  will 
come  to  you.  I  will,  indeed.  And  I  will  stick  to  you. 
Misery  and  I  are  old  acquaintances — but  this  life  here 
is  worse  than  starving." 

She  paused  anxiously,  then,  in  a  voice  for  the  first 
time  sounding  really  timid,  she  added: 

"Or  if  you  were  engaged  in  some  dangerous  work. 
Sometimes  a  humble  companion — I  would  not  want  to 
16  231 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

know  anything.     I  would  follow  you  with  joy.     I  could 
carry  out  orders.     I  have  the  courage." 

Razumov  looked  attentively  at  the  scared,  round 
eyes,  at  the  withered,  sallow,  round  cheeks.  They  were 
quivering  about  the  corners  of  the  mouth. 

"She  wants  to  escape  from  here,"  he  thought. 

"Suppose  I  were  to  tell  you  that  I  am  engaged  in 
dangerous  work,"  he  uttered,  slowly. 

She  pressed  the  cat  to  her  threadbare  bosom  with  a 
breathless  exclamation.  "Ah!"  Then,  not  much  above 
a  whisper,  "Under  Peter  Ivanovitch?" 

"No,  not  under  Peter  Ivanovitch." 

He  read  a  scared  admiration  in  her  eyes  and  made 
an  effort  to  smile. 

"Then— alone?" 

He  held  up  his  closed  hand  with  the  index  raised. 

"Like  this  finger,"  he  said. 

She  was  tremibling  slightly.  But  it  occurred  to 
Razumov  that  they  might  have  been  observed  from 
the  house,  and  he  became  anxious  to  be  gone.  She 
blinked,  raising  up  to  him  her  puckered  face,  and 
seemed  to  beg  mutely  to  be  told  something  more,  to 
be  given  a  word  of  encouragement  for  her  starving, 
grotesque,  and  pathetic  devotion. 

"Can  we  be  seen  from  the  house?"  asked  Razumov, 
confidentially. 

She  answered,  without  showing  the  slightest  surprise 
at  the  question : 

"  No,  we'can't,  on  account  of  this  end  of  the  stables." 
And  she  added,  with  an  acuteness  which  surprised 
Razumov:  "But  anybody  looking  out  of  an  up-stairs 
window  would  know  that  you  have  not  passed  through 
the  gates  yet." 

"Who's  likely  to  spy  out  of  the  window?"  queried 
Razumov.     "Peter  Ivanovitch?" 

She  nodded. 

"Why  should  he  trouble  his  head?" 

232 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

**  He  expects  somebody  this  afternoon." 

"You  know  the  person?" 

"There's  more  than  one." 

She  had  lowered  her  eyelids.  Razumov  looked  at  her 
curiously. 

"Of  course.     You  hear  everything  they  say." 

She  murmured  without  any  animosity, 

"So  do  the  tables  and  chairs." 

He  understood  that  the  bitterness  accumulated  in  the 
heart  of  that  helpless  creature  had  got  into  her  veins  and, 
like  some  subtle  poison,  had  decomposed  her  fidelity  to 
that  hateful  pair.  It  was  a  great  piece  of  luck  for  him,  he 
reflected;  because  women  are  seldom  venal  after  the 
manner  of  men,  who  can  be  bought  for  material  consider- 
ations. She  would  be  a  good  ally,  though  it  was  not 
likely  that  she  was  allowed  to  hear  as  much  as  the  tables 
and  chairs  of  the  Chateau  Borel.  That  could  not  be 
expected.  But  still  .  .  .  And,  at  any  rate,  she  could 
be  made  to  talk. 

When  she  looked  up  her  eyes  met  the  fixed  stare  of 
Razumov,  who  began  to  speak  at  once. 

"  Well,  well,  dear  .  .  .  but,  upon  my  word,  I  haven't 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  name  yet.  Isn't  it 
strange?" 

For  the  first  time  she  made  a  movement  of  the 
shoulders. 

"Is  it  strange?  No  one  is  told  my  name.  No  one 
cares.  No  one  talks  to  me,  no  one  writes  to  me.  My 
parents  don't  even  know  if  I  am  alive.  I  have  no  use 
for  a  name,  and  I  have  almost  forgotten  it  myself." 

Razumov  murmured,  gravely:    "Yes,  but  still  .  .  ." 

She  went  on  much  slower,  with  indifference: 

"You  may  call  me  Tekla,  then.  My  poor  Andrei 
called  me  so.  I  was  devoted  to  him.  He  lived  in 
wretchedness  and  suffering  and  died  in  misery.  That 
is  the  lot  of  all  us  Russians — nameless  Russians.  There 
is  nothing  else  for  us,  and  no  hope  anywhere,  unless  .  .  .'! 

233 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

''Unless  what?" 

"Unless  all  these  people  with  names  are  done  away 
with,"  she  finished,  blinking  and  pursing  up  her  lips. 

"  It  will  be  easier  to  call  you  Tekla,  as  you  direct  me," 
said  Razumov,  "if  you  consent  to  call  me  Kirylo  when 
we  are  talking  like  this — quietly — only  you  and  me." 

And  he  said  to  himself:  "Here's  a  being  v/ho  must  be 
terribly  afraid  of  the  world,  else  she  would  have  run  away 
from  this  situation  before."  Then  he  reflected  that  the 
mere  fact  of  leaving  the  great  man  abruptly  would  make 
her  a  suspect.  She  could  expect  no  support  or  counte- 
nance from  any  one.  This  revolutionist  was  not  fit  for 
an  independent  existence. 

She  moved  with  him  a  few  steps,  blinking  and  nursing 
the  cat  with  a  small  balancing  movement  of  her  arms. 

"  Yes — only  you  and  I.  That's  how  I  was  with  my  poor 
Andrei,  only  he  was  dying,  killed  by  those  official  brutes 
— while  you!  You  are  strong!  You  kill  the  monsters. 
You  have  done  a  great  deed.  Peter  Ivanovitch  himself 
must  consider  you.  Well — don't  forget  me — especially 
if  you  are  going  back  to  work  in  Russia.  I  could  fol- 
low you,  carrying  anything  that  w^as  wanted — at  a  dis- 
tance, you  know.  Or  I  could  watch  for  hours  at  the 
corner  of  a  street  if  necessary,  in  wet  or  snow — yes,  I 
could — all  day  long.  Or  I  could  write  for  you  dangerous 
documents,  lists  of  names  or  instructions,  so  that  in  case 
of  mischance  the  handwriting  could  not  compromise  you. 
And  you  need  not  be  afraid  if  they  were  to  catch  me. 
I  would  know  how  to  keep  dumb.  We  women  are  not  so 
easily  daunted  by  pain.  I  heard  Peter  Ivanovitch  say 
it  is  our  blunt  nerves  or  something.  We  can  stand  it 
better.  And  it's  true:  I  would  just  as  soon  bite  my 
tongue  out  and  throw  it  at  them  as  not.  What's  the 
good  of  speech  to  me?  Who  would  ever  want  to  hear 
what  I  could  say?  Ever  since  I  closed  the  eyes  of  my 
poor  Andrei  I  haven't  ever  met  a  man  who  seemed  to 
care  for  the  sound  of  my  voice.     I  should  never  have 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

spoken  to  you  if  the  very  first  time  you  appeared  here 
you  had  not  taken  notice  of  me  so  nicely.  I  could  not 
help  speaking  of  you  to  that  charming,  dear  girl.  Oh, 
the  sweet  creature!  And  strong!  One  can  see  that  at 
once.  If  you  have  a  heart,  don't  let  her  ever  set  her 
foot  in  here.     Good-by!" 

Razumov  caught  her  by  the  arm.  Her  emotion  at 
being  thus  seized  manifested  itself  by  a  short  struggle, 
after  which  she  stood  still,  not  looking  at  him. 

"  But  you  can  tell  me,"  he  spoke  in  her  ear,  **  why  they 
— these  people  in  that  house  there — are  so  anxious  to 
get  hold  of  her?" 

She  freed  herself  to  turn  upon  him,  as  if  made  angry 
by  the  question. 

''Don't  you  understand  that  Peter  Ivanovitch  must 
direct,  inspire,  influence?  It  is  the  breath  of  his  life. 
There  can  never  be  too  many  disciples.  He  can't  bear 
thinking  of  any  one  escaping  him.  And  a  woman,  too! 
There  is  nothing  to  be  done  without  women,  he  says. 
He  has  written  it.     He — " 

The  young  man  was  staring  at  her  passion  when  she 
broke  off  suddenly  and  ran  away  behind  the  stable. 


Ill 


RAZUMOV,  thus  left  to  himself,  took  the  direction 
of  the  gate.  But  on  this  day  of  many  conversa- 
tions he  discovered  that  very  probably  he  could  not 
leave  the  grounds  without  having  to  hold  another 
one. 

Stepping  in  view  from  beyond  the  lodge  appeared  the 
expected  visitors  of  Peter  Ivanovitch  in  a  small  party 
composed  of  two  men  and  a  woman.  They  noticed  him, 
too,  immediately,  and  stopped  short  as  if  to  consult. 
But  in  a  moment  the  woman,  moving  aside,  motioned 
with  her  arm  to  the  two  men,  who,  leaving  the  drive  at 
once,  struck  across  the  large,  neglected  lawn,  or,  rather, 
grass-plot,  and  made  directly  for  the  house.  The  woman 
remained  on  the  path  waiting  for  Razumov's  approach. 
She  had  recognized  him.  He,  too,  had  recognized  her 
at  the  first  glance.  He  had  been  made  known  to  her  at 
Zurich,  where  he  had  broken  his  journey  while  on  his 
way  from  Dresden.  They  had  been  much  together  for 
the  three  days  of  his  stay. 

She  had  on  the  very  same  costume  in  which  he  had 
seen  her  first.  A  blouse  of  crimson  silk  made  her 
noticeable  at  a  distance.  With  that  she  wore  a  short 
brown  skirt  and  a  leather  belt.  Her  complexion  was 
the  color  of  coffee  and  milk,  but  very  clear;  her  eyes 
black  and  glittering,  her  figure  erect.  A  lot  of  thick  hair, 
nearly  white,  was  done  up  loosely  under  a  dusty  Tyro- 
lese  hat  of  dark  cloth,  which  seemed  to  have  lost  some 
of  its  trimmings. 

The  expression  of  her  face  was  grave,  intent;  so  grave 

236 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

that  Razumov,  after  approaching  her  close,  felt  obliged 
to  smile.     She  greeted  him  with  a  manly  hand-grasp. 

"What?  Are  you  going  away?"  she  exclaimed. 
"How  is  that,  Razumov?" 

*'I  am  going  away  because  I  haven't  been  asked  to 
stay,"  Razumov  answered,  returning  the  pressure  of 
her  hand  with  much  less  force  than  she  had  put 
into  it. 

She  jerked  her  head  sideways  like  one  who  understands. 
Meantime,  Razumov's  eyes  had  strayed  after  the  two 
men.  They  were  crossing  the  grass-plot  obliquely, 
without  haste,  looking  straight  before  them  at  the  house. 
The  shorter  of  the  two  was  buttoned  up  in  a  narrow 
overcoat  of  some  thin,  gray  material  which  came  nearly 
to  his  heels.  His  companion,  much  taller  and  broader, 
wore  a  short,  close-fitting  jacket  and  tight  trousers 
tucked  into  shabby  top-boots. 

The  woman,  who  had  sent  them  out  of  Razumov's 
way,  apparently,  spoke  in  a  businesslike  voice. 

"I  had  to  come  rushing  from  Zurich  on  purpose  to 
meet  the  train  and  take  these  two  along  here  to  see  Peter 
Ivanovitch.     I've  just  managed  it." 

"Ah!  indeed,"  Razumov  said,  perfunctorily,  and  very 
vexed  at  her  staying  behind  to  talk  to  him.  "From 
Zurich — yes,  of  course.  And  these  two,  they  come 
from  .  .  ." 

She  interrupted,  without  emphasis: 

"  From  quite  another  direction.  From  a  distance,  too. 
A  considerable  distance." 

Razumov  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  two  men  from 
a  distance,  after  having  reached  the  wall  of  the  terrace, 
disappeared  suddenly  at  its  foot  as  if  the  earth  had 
opened  to  swallow  them  up. 

"  Oh,  well,  they  have  just  come  from  America."  The 
woman  in  the  crimson  blouse  shrugged  her  shoulders,  too, 
a  little  before  making  that  statement.  "The  time  is 
drawing  near,"  she  interjected,  as  if  speaking  to  herself. 

237 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"  I  did  not  tell  them  who  you  were.  Yakovlitch  would 
have  wanted  to  embrace  you." 

"Is  that  he  with  the  wisp  of  hair  hanging  from  his 
chin,  in  the  long  coat?" 

"You've  guessed  aright.     That's  Yakovlitch." 

"And  they  could  not  find  their  way  here  from  the 
station  without  you  coming  on  purpose  from  Zurich  to 
show  it  to  them.  Verily  without  women  we  can  do 
nothing.     So  it  stands  written,  and,  apparently,  so  it  is." 

He  was  conscious  of  an  immense  lassitude  under  his 
effort  to  be  sarcastic.  And  he  could  see  that  she  had  de- 
tected it  with  those  steady,  brilliant  black  eyes. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  Nothing.  I've  had  a  devil  of  a  day. 
All  day  long." 

She  waited  with  her  black  eyes  fixed  on  his  face. 
Then: 

"What  of  that?  You  men  are  so  impressionable  and 
self-conscious.  One  da}?-  is  like  another — hard,  hard, 
and  there's  an  end  of  it,  till  the  great  day  comes.  I 
came  over  for  a  very  good  reason.  They  wrote  to  warn 
Peter  Ivanovitch  of  their  arrival.  But  where  from? 
Only  from  Cherbourg  on  a  bit  of  ship's  note-paper.  Any- 
body could  have  done  that.  Yakovlitch  has  lived  for 
years  and  years  in  America.  I  am  the  only  one  at  hand 
who  had  known  him  well  in  the  old  days.  I  knew  him 
very  well  indeed.  So  Peter  Ivanovitch  telegraphed, 
asking  me  to  come.     It's  natural  enough,  is  it  not?" 

"You  came  to  vouch  for  his  identity?"  inquired 
Razumov. 

"Yes.  Something  of  the  kind.  Fifteen  years  of  a 
life  like  his  make  changes  in  a  man.  Lonely  like  a  crow 
in  a  strange  country.  When  I  think  of  Yakovlitch  be- 
fore he  went  to  America — " 

The  softness  in  the  low  tone  of  these  words  caused 
Razumov  to  glance  at  her  sideways.  The  black  eyes 
were  looking  away;    she  had  plunged  the  fingers  of  her 

238 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

right  hand  deep  into  the  mass  of  nearly  white  hair,  and 
stirred  them  there  absently.  When  she  withdrew  her 
hand  the  little  hat  perched  on  the  top  of  her  head  re- 
mained slightly  tilted,  with  a  queer,  inquisitive  effect, 
contrasting  strongly  with  the  reminiscent  murmur  that 
escaped  her. 

"We  were  not  in  our  first  youth  even  then.  But  a 
man  is  a  child  always." 

Razumov  thought,  suddenly:  ''They  have  been  living 
together."     Then  aloud: 

"Why  didn't  you  follow  him  to  America?"  he  asked, 
point-blank. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  perturbed  air. 

"Don't  you  remember  what  was  going  on  fifteen  years 
ago  ?  It  was  a  time  of  activity.  The  Revolution  has  its 
history  by  this  time.  You  are  in  it  and  yet  you  don't 
seem  to  know  it.  Yakovlitch  went  away  then  on  a  mis- 
sion; I  went  back  to  Russia.  It  had  to  be  so.  After- 
ward there  was  nothing  for  him  to  come  back  to." 

"Ah!  indeed,"  muttered  Razumov,  with  affected  sur- 
prise.    "Nothing!" 

"What  are  you  trying  to  insinuate?"  she  exclaimed, 
quickly.  "Well,  and  what  then  if  he  did  get  discouraged 
a  little?  .  .  ." 

"He  looks  like  a  Yankee,  with  that  goatee  hanging 
from  his  chin.  A  regular  Uncle  Sam,"  growled  Raz- 
umov. "Well,  and  you?  You  who  went  to  Russia? 
You  did  not  get  discouraged." 

"Never  mind.  Yakovlitch  is  a  man  who  cannot  be 
doubted.     He,  at  any  rate,  is  the  right  sort." 

Her  black,  penetrating  gaze  remained  fixed  upon 
Razumov  while  she  spoke  and  for  a  moment  afterward. 

"Pardon  me,"  Razumov  inquired,  coldly,  "but  does  it 
mean  that  you,  for  instance,  think  that  I  am  not  the 
right  sort?" 

She  made  no  protest,  gave  no  sign  of  having  heard  the 
question;    she  continued  looking  at  him  in  a  manner 

239 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

which  he  judged  not  to  be  absolutely  unfriendly.  In 
Zurich,  when  he  passed  through,  she  had  taken  him 
under  her  charge,  in  a  way,  and  was  with  him  from 
morning  till  night  during  his  stay  of  two  days.  She 
took  him  round  to  see  several  people.  At  first  she  talked 
to  him  a  great  deal  and  rather  unreservedly,  but  always 
avoiding  strictly  any  reference  to  herself;  toward  the 
middle  of  the  second  day  she  fell  silent,  attending  him 
zealously  as  before,  and  even  seeing  him  off  at  the  rail- 
way station,  where  she  pressed  his  hand  firmly  through 
the  lowered  carriage  window,  and,  stepping  back  with- 
out a  word,  waited  till  the  train  moved.  He  had  noticed 
that  she  was  treated  with  quiet  regard.  He  knew  noth- 
ing of  her  parentage,  nothing  of  her  private  history  or 
political  record;  he  judged  her,  from  his  own  private 
point  of  view,  as  being  a  distinct  danger  in  his  path. 
Judged  is  not,  perhaps,  the  right  word.  It  was  more  of  a 
feeling,  the  summing-up  of  slight  impressions  aided  by  the 
discovery  that  he  could  not  despise  her  as  he  despised  all 
the  others.    He  had  not  expected  to  see  her  again  so  soon. 

No,  decidedly;  her  expression  was  not  unfriendly. 
Yet  he  perceived  an  acceleration  in  the  beat  of  his  heart. 
This  conversation  could  not  be  abandoned  at  that  point. 
He  went  on  in  accents  of  scrupulous  inquiry. 

"  Is  it,  perhaps,  because  I  don't  seem  to  accept  blindly 
every  development  of  the  general  doctrine — such,  for 
instance,  as  the  feminism  of  our  great  Peter  Ivanovitch  ? 
If  that  is  what  makes  me  suspect,  then  I  can  only  say  I 
would  scorn  to  be  a  slave  even  to  an  idea." 

She  had  been  looking  at  him  all  the  time,  not  as  a 
listener  looks  at  one,  but  as  if  his  words  he  chose  to  say 
were  only  of  secondary  interest.  When  he  finished  she 
slipped  her  hand,  by  a  sudden  and  decided  movement, 
under  his  arm  and  impelled  him  gently  toward  the  gate  of 
the  grounds.  He  felt  her  firmness  and  obeyed  the  im- 
pulsion at  once  just  as  the  other  two  men  had,  a  moment 
before,  obeyed  unquestioningly  the  wave  of  her  hand. 

240 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

They  made  a  few  steps  like  this. 

'*No,  Razumov,  your  ideas  are  probably  all  right," 
she  said.  "You  may  be  valuable  —  very  valuable. 
Wliat's  the  matter  with  you  is  that  you  don't  like 
us." 

She  released  him.     He  met  her  with  a  frosty  smile. 

**Am  I  expected  then  to  have  love  as  well  as  con- 
victions?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You  know  very  well  what  I  mean.  People  have 
been  thinking  you  not  quite  whole-hearted.  I  have 
heard  that  opinion  from  one  side  and  another.  But  I 
have  understood  you  at  the  end  of  the  first  day.  ..." 

Razumov  interrupted  her,  speaking  steadily. 

"I  assure  you  that  your  perspicacity  is  at  fault  here." 

"What  phrases  he  uses!"  she  exclaimed,  parentheti- 
cally. "Ah!  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  you,  like  other  men, 
are  fastidious,  full  of  self-love,  and  afraid  of  trifles. 
Moreover,  you  had  no  training.  What  you  want  is  to  be 
taken  in  hand  by  some  woman.  I  am  sorry  I  am  not 
staying  here  a  few  days.  I  am  going  back  to  Zurich 
to-morrow,  and  shall  take  Yakovlitch  with  me  most 
likely." 

This  information  relieved  Razumov. 

"  I  am  sorry,  too,"  he  said.  "  But  all  the  same,  I  don't 
think  you  understand  me." 

She  released  his  arm.  He  breathed  more  freely;  but 
at  the  last  moment  she  asked: 

"And  how  did  you  hit  it  off  with  our  Peter  Ivanovitch  ? 
You  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  each  other.  How  is  it  be- 
tween you  two?" 

Not  knowing  what  answer  to  make,  the  young  man 
inclined  his  head  slowly. 

Her  lips  had  been  parted  in  expectation.  She  pressed 
them  together,  and  seemed  to  reflect. 

"That's  all  right." 

This  had  a  sound  of  finality,  but  she  did  not  leave 
241 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

him.  It  was  impossible  to  guess  what  she  had  in  her 
mind.     Razumov  muttered: 

"It  is  not  me  that  you  should  have  asked  that  ques- 
tion. In  a  moment  you  shall  see  Peter  Ivanovitch  him- 
self, and  the  subject  will  come  up  naturally.  He  will  be 
curious  to  know  what  has  delayed  you  so  long  in  this 
garden." 

**No  doubt  Peter  Ivanovitch  will  have  something  to 
say  to  me.  Several  things.  He  may  even  speak  of  you 
— question  me.  Peter  Ivanovitch  is  inclined  to  trust 
me  generally." 

"Question  you?     That's  very  likely." 

She  smiled,  half  serious. 

"Well— and  what  shall  I  saiy  to  him?" 

"  I  don't  know.     You  may  tell  him  of  your  discovery." 

"What's  that?" 

"Why — my  lack  of  love  for  .  .  ." 

"Oh!  That's  between  ourselves,"  she  interrupted,  it 
was  hard  to  say  whether  in  jest  or  earnest. 

"I  see  that  you  want  to  tell  Peter  Ivanovitch  some- 
thing in  my  favor,"  said  Razumov,  with  grim  playful- 
ness. "Well,  then  you  could  tell  him  that  I  am  very 
much  in  earnest  about  my  mission.     I  mean  to  succeed." 

"You  have  been  given  a  mission?"  she  exclaimed, 
quickly. 

"  It  amounts  to  that.  I  have  been  told  to  bring  about 
a  certain  event." 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly. 

"A  mission,"  she  repeated,  very  grave  and  interested 
all  at  once.     "What  sort  of  mission?" 

"Something  in  the  nature  of  propaganda  work." 

"Ah!     Far  away  from  here?" 

"No.  Not  very  far,"  said  Razumov,  restraining  a 
sudden  desire  to  laugh,  though  he  did  not  feel  joyous  in 
the  least. 

"  So!"  she  said,  thoughtfully.  "Well,  I  am  not  asking 
questions.     It's  sufficient  that  Peter  Ivanovitch  should 

242 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

know  what  each  of  us  is  doing.     Everything  is  bound  to 
come  right  in  the  end." 

"You  think  so?" 

"  I  don't  think,  young  man.     I  just  simply  believe  it.*' 

"And  is  it  to  Peter  Ivanovitch  that  you  owe  that 
faith?" 

She  did  not  answer  the  question,  and  they  stood  idle, 
silent,  as  if  reluctant  to  part  from  each  other. 

"  That's  just  like  a  man,"  she  murmured  at  last.  "  As 
if  it  were  possible  to  tell  how  a  belief  comes  to  one." 
Her  thin,  Mephistophelian  eyebrows  moved  sinuously  a 
little.  "Truly  there  are  millions  of  people  in  Russia 
who  would  envy  the  life  of  dogs  in  this  country.  It  is  a 
horror  and  a  shame  to  confess  that  even  between  our- 
selves. One  must  believe  for  very  pity.  This  can't  go 
on.  No !  It  can't  go  on.  For  twenty  years  I  have  been 
coming  and  going,  looking  neither  to  the  left  nor  to  the 
right.  .  .  .  What  are  you  smiling  to  yourself  for?  You 
are  only  at  the  beginning.  You  have  begun  well,  but 
you  just  wait  till  you  have  trodden  every  particle  of 
yourself  under  your  feet  in  your  comings  and  goings. 
For  that  is  what  it  comes  to.  You've  got  to  trample 
down  every  particle  of  your  own  feelings;  for  to  stop 
you  cannot,  you  must  not.  I  have  been  young,  too — 
but  perhaps  you  think  that  I  am  complaining — eh  ?" 

"I  don't  think  anything  of  the  sort,"  protested  Razu- 
mov,  indifferently. 

"I  dare  say  you  don*t,  you  dear,  superior  creature. 
You  don't  care." 

She  plunged  her  fingers  into  the  bunch  of  hair  on  the 
left  side,  and  that  brusque  movement  had  the  effect  of 
setting  the  Tyrolese  hat  straight  on  her  head.  She 
frowned  under  it  without  animosity,  in  the  manner  of 
an  investigator.     Razumov  averted  his  face  carelessly. 

"  You  men  are  all  alike.  You  mistake  luck  for  merit. 
You  do  it  in  good  faith,  too!  I  would  not  be  too  hard 
on  you.    It's  masculine  nature.     You  men  are  ridicU' 

243 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

lously  pitiful  in  your  aptitude  to  cherish  childish  illu- 
sions down  to  the  very  grave.  There  is  a  lot  of  us  who 
have  been  at  work  for  fifteen  years — I  mean  constantly — 
trying  one  way  after  another,  under  ground  and  above 
ground,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left!  I 
can  talk  about  it.  I  have  been  one  of  these  that  never 
rested.  There !  What's  the  use  of  talking.  Look  at  my 
gray  hairs!  And  here  two  babies  come  along — I  mean 
you  and  Haldin — you  come  along  and  manage  to  strike 
a  blow  at  the  first  try." 

At  the  name  of  Haldin  falling  from  the  rapid  and 
energetic  lips  of  the  woman  revolutionist,  Razumov  had 
the  usual  brusque  consciousness  of  the  irrevocable.  But 
in  all  the  months  which  had  passed  over  his  head  he  had 
become  hardened  to  the  experience.  The  consciousness 
was  no  longer  accompanied  by  the  blank  dismay  and 
the  blind  anger  of  the  early  days.  He  had  argued  him- 
self into  new  beliefs;  and  he  had  made  for  himself  a 
mental  atmosphere  of  gloomy  and  sardonic  reverie,  a 
sort  of  murky  medium  through  which  the  event  appeared 
like  a  featureless  shadow  having  vaguely  the  shape  of  a 
man,  extremely  familiar  yet  utterly  inexpressive,  except 
for  its  air  of  discreet  waiting  in  the  dusk.  It  was  not 
alarming. 

"What  was  he  like?"  the  woman  revolutionist  asked, 
unexpectedly. 

**What  was  he  like?"  repeated  Razumov,  making  a 
painful  effort  not  to  turn  upon  her  savagely.  But  he 
relieved  himself  by  laughing  a  little,  while  he  stole  a 
glance  at  her  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  She  looked 
disturbed  by  this  reception  of  her  inquiry. 

"How  like  a  woman!"  he  went  on.  "What  is  the 
good  of  concerning  yourself  with  his  appearance  ?  What- 
ever it  was,  he  is  removed  beyond  all  feminine  in- 
fluences now." 

A  frown,  making  three  folds  at  the  root  of  her  nose, 
accentuated  the  Mephistophelian  slant  of  her  eyebrows. 

244 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"You  suffer,  Razumov,"  she  suggested,  in  her  low, 
confident  voice. 

* '  What  nonsense !"  Razumov  faced  the  woman  fairly. 
"But,  now  I  think  of  it,  I  am  not  sure  that  he  is  beyond 
the  influence  of  one  woman,  at  least.    The  one  over  there 

— Madame  de  S ,  you  know.     Formerly  the  dead 

were  allowed  to  rest,  but  now  it  seems  they  are  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  a  crazy  old  harridan.  We  revolutionists 
make  wonderful  discoveries.  It  is  true  that  they  are  not 
exactly  our  own.  We  have  nothing  of  our  own.  But 
couldn't  the  friend  of  Peter  Ivanovitch  satisfy  your 
feminine  curiosity?  Couldn't  she  conjure  him  up  for 
you  ?"  he  jested  like  a  man  in  pain. 

Her  concentrated  frowning  expression  relaxed,  and 
she  said,  a  little  wearily:  " Let  us  hope  she  will  make  an 
effort  and  conjure  up  some  tea  for  us.  But  that  is  by 
no  means  certain.     I  am  tired,  Razumov." 

"You  tired!  What  a  confession!  Well,  there  has 
been  tea  up  there.  I  had  some.  If  you  hurry  on  after 
Yakovlitch,  instead  of  wasting  your  time  with  such  an 
unsatisfactory,  skeptical  person  as  myself,  you  may  find 
the  ghost  of  it — the  cold  ghost  of  it — still  lingering  in  the 
temple.  But  as  to  you  being  tired,  I  can  hardly  believe 
it.  We  are  not  supposed  to  be.  We  mustn't.  We 
can't.  The  other  day  I  read  in  some  paper  or  other 
an  alarmist  article  on  the  tireless  activity  of  the  Rev- 
olutionary parties.  It  impresses  the  world.  It's  our 
prestige." 

"He  flings  out  continually  these  flouts  and  sneers." 
The  woman  in  the  crimson  blouse  spoke  as  if  appealing 
quietly  to  a  third  person,  but  her  black  eyes  never  left 
Razumov's  face.  "And  what  for,  pray?  Simply  be- 
cause some  of  his  conventional  notions  are  shocked,  some 
of  his  petty  masculine  standards.  A  true  man's  childish- 
ness! You  might  think  he  was  one  of  those  nervous 
sensitives  that  come  to  a  bad  end.  And  yet,"  she  went 
on,  after  a  short  reflective  pause  and  changing  the  mode 

245 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

of  her  address — "  and  yet  I  know  something  which  makes 
me  think  you  are  a  man  of  character,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch. 
Yes!  indeed — I  know." 

There  was  something  mysteriously  positive  in  this 
assertion  which  startled  Razumov.  Their  eyes  met. 
He  looked  away  and,  through  the  bars  of  the  rusty  gate, 
stared  at  the  clean  wide  road  shaded  by  the  leafy  trees. 
An  electric  tram-car,  quite  empty,  ran  past  the  gate  with 
a  metallic  rustle.  It  seemed  to  him  he  would  have  given 
anything  to  be  sitting  inside  all  alone.  He  was  inex- 
pressibly weary,  weary  in  every  fiber  of  his  body,  but  he 
had  a  reason  for  not  being  the  first  to  break  off  the 
conversation.  It  would  not  be  sound  diplomacy.  And 
there  was  his  task — his  ordeal.  At  any  instant,  in  the 
visionary  and  criminal  babble  of  revolutions,  some  mo- 
mentous words  might  fall  on  his  ear — from  her  lips,  from 
anybody's  lips.  As  long  as  he  managed  to  preserve  a 
clear  mind  and  to  keep  down  his  irritability  there  was 
nothing  to  fear.  The  only  condition  of  success  and 
safety  was  indomitable  will-power,  he  reminded  himself. 

He  longed  to  be  on  the  other  side  of  the  bars,  as  though 
he  were  actually  a  prisoner  within  the  grounds  of  this 
center  of  revolutionary  plots,  of  this  house  of  folly,  of 
blindness,  of  villainy  and  crime.  Silently  he  indulged 
his  wounded  spirit  in  a  feeling  of  an  immense  moral  and 
mental  remoteness.  He  did  not  even  smile  when  he 
heard  her  repeat  the  words : 

"  Yes !     A  St r ong  character . ' ' 

He  continued  to  gaze  through  the  bars  like  a  moody 
prisoner,  not  thinking  of  escape,  but  merely  pondering 
upon  the  faded  memories  of  freedom. 

"If  you  don't  look  out,"  he  mumbled,  still  looking 
away,  "you  shall  certainly  miss  seeing  as  much  as  the 
mere  ghost  of  that  tea." 

She  was  not  to  be  shaken  off  in  such  a  way.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  had  not  expected  to  succeed. 

"Never  mind,  it  will  be  no  great  loss.     I  mean  the 

246 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

missing  of  her  tea,  and  only  the  ghost  of  it  at  that.  As 
to  the  lady,  you  must  understand  that  she  has  her 
positive  use.     See  that,  Razumov." 

He  turned  his  head  at  this  imperative  appeal  and  saw 
the  woman  revolutionist  making  the  motions  of  counting 
money  into  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

''That's  what  it  is.     You  see?" 

Razumov  uttered  a  slow  "I  see"  and  returned  to  his 
prisoner-like  gazing  upon  the  neat  and  shady  road. 

"Material  means  must  be  obtained  in  some  way,  and 
this  is  easier  than  breaking  into  banks.  More  certain, 
too.  There!  I  am  joking.  .  .  .  What  is  he  muttering 
to  himself  now?"  she  cried,  under  her  breath. 

"My  admiration  of  Peter  Ivanovitch's  devoted  self- 
sacrifice,  that's  all.     It's  enough  to  make  one  sick." 

"Oh,  you  squeamish,  masculine  creature!  Sick! 
Makes  him  sick!  And  what  do  you  know  of  the  truth  of 
it?  There's  no  looking  into  the  secrets  of  the  heart. 
Peter  Ivanovitch  knew  her  years  ago,  in  his  worldly  days 
when  he  was  a  young  officer  in  the  Guards.  It  is  not  for 
us  to  judge  an  inspired  person.  That's  where  you  men 
have  an  advantage.  You  are  inspired  sometimes  both 
in  thought  and  action.  I  have  always  admitted  that 
when  you  are  inspired,  when  you  manage  to  throw  off 
your  masculine  cowardice  and  prudishness  you  are  not 
to  be  equaled  by  us.  Only,  how  seldom  .  .  .  Whereas 
the  silliest  woman  can  always  be  made  of  use.  And  why  ? 
Because  we  have  passion,  unappeasable  passion  ...  I 
should  like  to  know  what  he  is  smiling  at." 

"I  am  not  smiling,"  protested  Razumov,  gloomily. 

"Well!  How  is  one  to  call  it?  You  made  some  sort 
of  face.  Yes,  I  know!  You  men  can  love  here  and  hate 
there  and  desire  something  or  other — and  you  make  a 
great  to-do  about  it,  and  you  call  it  passion!  Yes! 
While  it  lasts.  But  we  women  are  in  love  with  love, 
and  with  hate,  with  these  very  things,  I  tell  you,  and 
with  desire  itself.     That's  why  we  can't  be  bribed  off 

17  247 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

so  easily  as  you  men.  In  life,  you  see,  there  is  not  much 
choice  for  one.  You  have  either  to  rot  or  to  burn.  And 
there  is  not  one  of  us,  painted  or  unpainted,  that  would 
not  rather  burn  than  rot." 

She  spoke  with  energy  but  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 
Razumov's  attention  had  wandered  away  on  a  track  of 
its  own — outside  the  bars  of  the  gate — but  not  out  of 
earshot.  He  stuck  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his 
coat. 

"Rot  or  burn!  Powerfully  stated.  Painted  or  un- 
painted! Very  vigarous.  Painted  or  .  .  .  Do  tell  me. 
She  would  be  infernally  jealous  of  him,  wouldn't  she?" 

**Who?  What?  The  Baroness?  Eleanor  Maxi- 
movna  ?  Jealous  of  Peter  Ivanovitch  ?  Heavens !  Are 
these  the  questions  the  man's  mind  is  running  on  ?  Such 
a  thing  is  not  to  be  thought  of  I" 

"Why?  Can't  a  wealthy  old  woman  be  jealous ?  Or 
are  they  all  pure  spirits  together?" 

"But  what  put  it  into  your  head  to  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion?" she  wondered. 

"Nothing.  I  just  asked.  Masculine  frivolity,  if  you 
like." 

"I  don't  like,"  she  retorted  at  once.  "It  is  not  the 
time  to  be  frivolous.  What  are  you  flinging  your  very 
heart  against?  Or  perhaps  you  are  only  playing  a 
part." 

Razumov  had  felt  that  woman's  observation  of  him 
like  a  physical  contact,  like  a  hand  resting  lightly  on  his 
shoulder.  At  that  moment  he  received  the  mysterious 
impression  of  her  having  made  up  her  mind  for  a  closer 
grip.  He  stiffened  himself  inwardly  to  bear  it  without 
betraying  himself. 

"Playing  a  part,"  he  repeated,  presenting  to  her  an 
unmoved  profile.  "It  must  be  done  very  badly  since 
you  see  through  the  assumption." 

She  watched  him,  her  forehead  drawn  into  perpen- 
dicular folds,  the  thin,  black  eyebrows  diverging  upward 

248 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

like    the    antennae    of   the    insect.     He    added,    hardly 
audibly : 

"  You  are  mistaken.  I  am  doing  it  no  more  than  the 
rest  of  us." 

"Who  is  doing  it?"  she  snapped  out. 

"Who?  Everybody,"  he  said,  impatiently.  "You 
are  a  materialist,  aren't  you?" 

"Eh!  My  dear  soul,  I  have  outlived  all  that  non- 
sense." 

"But  you  must  remember  the  definition  of  Cabanis: 
'Man  is  a  digestive  tube.'     I  imagine  now  ..." 

"I  spit  on  him." 

"What?  On  Cabanis?  All  right.  But  you  can't 
ignore  the  importance  of  a  good  digestion.  The  joy  of 
life — you  know  the  joy  of  life? — depends  on  a  sound 
stomach,  whereas  a  bad  digestion  inclines  one  to  skepti- 
cism, incredulity,  breeds  black  fancies  and  thoughts  of 
death.  These  are  facts  ascertained  by  physiologists. 
Well,  I  assure  you  that  ever  since  I  came  over  from 
Russia  I  have  been  stuffed  with  indigestible  foreign  con- 
coctions of  the  most  nauseating  kind — pah!" 

"You  are  joking,"  she  murmured,  incredulously.  He 
assented  in  a  detached  way. 

"  Yes.  It  is  all  a  joke.  It's  hardly  worth  while  talk- 
ing to  a  man  like  me.  Yet  for  that  very  reason  men 
have  been  known  to  take  their  own  life." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  think  it  is  worth  while  talking  to 
you." 

He  kept  her  in  the  comer  of  his  eye.  She  had  plunged 
her  fingers  in  the  loose  hair  at  the  side  of  her  head  and 
was  stirring  them  thoughtfully. 

She  seemed  to  be  thinking  out  some  scathing  retort, 
but  ended  by  only  shrugging  her  shoulders  slightly. 

"Shallow  talk!  I  suppose  one  must  pardon  this 
weakness  in  you,"  she  said,  putting  a  special  accent  on 
the  last  word.  There  was  something  anxious  in  her 
indulgent  conclusion. 

249 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES* 

Razumov  noted  the  slightest  shades  in  this  conversa- 
tion which  he  had  not  expected,  for  which  he  was  not 
prepared.  That  was  it.  ''I  was  not  prepared,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "It  has  taken  me  unawares."  It  seemed 
to  him  that  if  he  only  could  allow  himself  to  pant  openly- 
like  a  dog  for  a  time  this  oppression  would  pass  away. 
**I  shall  never  be  found  prepared,"  he  thought  with  des- 
pair.   He  laughed  a  little,  saying,  as  lightly  as  he  could : 

"Thanks.  I  don't  ask  for  mercy."  Then,  affecting 
a  playful  uneasiness:  "But  aren't  you  afraid  Peter 
Ivanovitch  might  suspect  us  of  plotting  something  un- 
authorized together  by  the  gate  here?" 

"No,  I  am  not  afraid.  You  are  quite  safe  from 
suspicions  while  you  are  with  me,  my  dear  young  man." 
The  humorous  gleam  in  her  black  eyes  went  out.  "  Peter 
Ivanovitch  trusts  me,"  she  went  on,  quite  austerely. 
"He  takes  my  advice.  I  am  his  right  hand,  as  it  were, 
in  certain  most  important  things  .  .  .  That  amuses  you 
— what?     Do  you  think  I  am  boasting?" 

"God  forbid.  I  was  just  only  saying  to  myself  that 
Peter  Ivanovitch  seems  to  have  solved  the  woman  ques- 
tion pretty  completely." 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  reproached  himself  for  his  words, 
for  his  tone.  All  day  long  he  had  been  saying  the  wrong 
things.  It  was  folly,  worse  than  folly.  It  was  weak- 
ness; it  was  this  disease  of  perversity  overcoming  his 
will.  Was  this  the  way  to  meet  speeches  which  cer- 
tainly contained  the  promise  of  future  confidences  from 
that  woman  who  apparently  had  a  great  store  of  secret 
knowledge  and  so  much  influence  ?  Why  give  her  this 
puzzling  impression?  But  she  did  not  seem  inimical. 
There  was  no  anger  in  her  voice.  It  was  strangely 
speculative. 

"One  does  not  know  what  to  think,  Razumov.  You 
must  have  bitten  something  bitter  in  your  cradle." 

Razumov  gave  her  a  sidelong  glance. 

"H'm!    Something  bitter?    That's  an  explanation," 

250 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

he  muttered.  "  Only  it  was  much  later.  And  don't  you 
think,  Sophia  Antonovna,  that  you  and  I  come  from 
the  same  cradle?" 

The  woman  whose  name  he  had  forced  himself  at  last 
to  pronounce  (he  had  experienced  a  strong  repugnance 
in  letting  it  pass  his  lips),  the  woman  revolutionist 
murmured,  after  a  pause: 

"You  mean — Russia?" 

He  disdained  even  to  nod.  She  seemed  softened,  her 
black  eyes  very  still,  as  though  she  were  pursuing  the 
simile  in  her  thoughts  to  all  its  tender  associations. 
But  suddenly  she  knitted  her  brows  in  a  Mephistophelian 
frown. 

"Yes.  Perhaps  no  wonder  then.  Yes.  One  lies 
there  lapped  up  in  evils,  watched  over  by  beings  that 
are  worse  than  ogres,  ghouls,  and  vampires.  They  must 
be  driven  away,  destroyed  utterly.  In  regard  of  that 
task  nothing  else  matters  if  men  and  women  are  de- 
termined and  faithful.  That's  how  I  came  to  feel  in 
the  end.  The  great  thing  is  not  to  quarrel  among  our- 
selves about  all  sorts  of  conventional  trifles.  Remember 
that,  Razumov." 

Razumov  was  not  listening.  He  had  even  lost  the 
sense  of  being  watched  in  a  sort  of  heavy  tranquillity. 
His  uneasiness,  his  exasperation,  his  scorn  were  blunted 
at  last  by  all  these  trying  hours.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
now  they  were  blunted  forever.  "I  am  a  match  for 
them  all,"  he  thought,  with  a  conviction  too  firm  to  be 
exulting.  The  woman  revolutionist  had  ceased  speak- 
ing; he  was  not  looking  at  her;  there  was  no  one  passing 
along  the  road.  He  almost  forgot  that  he  was  not  alone. 
He  heard  her  voice  again,  curt,  businesslike,  and  yet  be- 
tra34ng  the  hesitation  which  had  been  the  real  reason 
of  her  prolonged  silence. 

"I  say,  Razumov!" 

Razumov,  whose  face  was  turned  away  from  her,  made 
a  grimace  like  a  man  who  hears  a  false  note. 

251 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Tell  me:  is  it  true  that  on  the  very  morning  you 
actually  attended  the  lectures  at  the  University?" 

An  appreciable  fraction  of  a  second  elapsed  before  the 
real  import  of  the  question  reached  him  like  a  bullet 
which  strikes  some  time  after  the  flash  of  the  fired  shot. 
Luckily  his  disengaged  hand  was  ready  to  grip  a  bar  of 
the  gate.  He  held  it  with  a  terrible  force,  but  his  presence 
of  mind  was  gone.  He  could  make  only  a  sort  of  gur- 
gling, grumpy  sound. 

"  Come,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch !"  she  urged  him.  "  I  know 
you  are  not  a  boastful  man.  That  one  must  say  for  you. 
You  are  a  silent  man.  Too  silent,  perhaps.  You  are 
feeding  on  some  bitterness  of  your  own.  You  are  not  an 
enthusiast.  You  are,  perhaps,  all  the  stronger  for  that. 
But  you  might  tell  me.  One  would  like  to  understand 
you  a  little  more.  I  was  so  immenseh^  struck  .  .  . 
Have  you  really  done  it?" 

He  got  his  voice  back.  The  shot  had  missed  him.  It 
had  been  fired  at  random,  altogether,  more  like  a  signal 
for  coming  to  close  quarters.  It  was  to  be  a  plain 
struggle  for  self-preservation.  And  she  was  a  dangerous 
adversary,  too.  But  he  was  ready  for  battle;  he  was  so 
ready  that  when  he  turned  toward  her  not  a  muscle  of 
his  face  moved. 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  without  animation,  secretly 
strung  up,  but  perfectly  sure  of  himself.  "Lectures — 
certainly.     But  what  makes  you  ask?" 

It  was  she  who  was  animated. 

"I  had  it  in  a  letter,  written  by  a  young  man  in 
Petersburg;  one  of  us,  of  course.  You  were  seen — you 
were  observed  with  your  note-book,  impassible,  taking 
notes  ..." 

He  enveloped  her  with  his  fixed  stare. 

"What  of  that?" 

"I  call  such  coolness  superb — that's  all.  It  is  a  proof 
of  uncommon  strength  of  character.  The  young  man 
writes  that  nobody  could  have  guessed  from  your  face 

252 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

and  manner  the  part  you  had  played  only  some  two 
hours  before — the  great,  momentous,  glorious  part  ..." 

"Oh  no.  Nobody  could  have  guessed,"  assented 
Razumov,  gravely,  "because,  don't  you  see,  nobody  at 
that  time  ..." 

"Yes,  yes.  But  all  the  same  you  are  a  man  of 
exceptional  fortitude,  it  seems.  You  looked  exactly 
as  usual.  It  was  remembered  afterward  with  won- 
der .  .  ." 

"It  cost  me  no  effort,"  Razumov  declared,  with  the 
same  staring  gravity. 

"Then  it's  almost  more  wonderful  still,"  she  ex- 
claimed, and  fell  silent  while  Razumov  asked  himself 
whether  he  had  not  said  there  something  utterly  un- 
necessar}'' — or  even  worse. 

She  raised  her  head  eagerly. 

"Your  intention  was  to  stay  in  Russia?  You  had 
planned  ..." 

"No,"  interrupted  Razumov  without  haste.  "I  had 
made  no  plans  of  any  sort." 

"You  just  simply  walked  away?"  she  struck  in. 

He  bowed  his  head  in  slow  assent.  "Simply — yes." 
He  had  gradually  released  his  hold  on  the  bar  of  the  gate, 
as  though  he  had  acquired  the  conviction  that  no  ran- 
dom shot  could  knock  him  over  now.  And  suddenly  he 
was  inspired  to  add:  "The  snow  was  coming  down  very 
thick,  you  know." 

She  had  a  slight  appreciative  movement  of  the  head, 
like  an  expert  in  such  enterprises,  very  interested,  ca- 
pable of  taking  every  point  professionally.  Razumov 
remembered  something  he  had  heard. 

"I  turned  into  a  narrow  side  street,  you  understand," 
he  went  on,  negligently,  and  paused  as  if  it  were  not 
worth  talking  about.  Then  he  remembered  another 
detail  and  dropped  it  before  her,  like  a  disdainful  dole 
to  her  curiosity. 

"I  felt  inclined  to  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep  there." 
253 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

She  clicked  her  tongue  at  that  symptom,  very  struck 
indeed.     Then  : 

"But  the  note-book!  The  amazing  note-book,  man! 
You  don't  mean  to  say  you  had  put  it  in  your  pocket 
beforehand!"  she  cried. 

Razumov  gave  a  start.  It  might  have  been  a  sign  of 
impatience. 

"  I  went  home.  Straight  home  to  my  rooms,"  he  said, 
distinctly. 

"The  coolness  of  the  man!     You  dared?" 

"Why  not?  I  assure  you  I  was  perfectly  calm.  Ha! 
Calmer  than  I  am  now,  perhaps." 

"  I  like  you  much  better  as  you  are  now  than  when  you 
indulge  that  bitter  vein  of  yours,  Razumov.  And  no- 
body in  the  house  saw  you  return — eh?  That  might 
have  appeared  queer." 

"No  one,"  Razumov  said,  firmly.  "Dvornik,  land- 
lady, girl,  all  out  of  the  way.  I  went  up  like  a  shadow. 
It  was  a  murky  morning.  The  stairs  were  dark.  I 
glided  up  like  a  phantom.  Fate?  Luck?  What  do 
you  think?" 

"I  just  see  it!"  The  eyes  of  the  woman  revolutionist 
snapped  darkly.    "Well — and  then  you  considered  .  .  ." 

Razumov  had  it  all  ready  in  his  head. 

"  No.  I  looked  at  my  watch,  since  you  want  to  know. 
There  was  just  time.  I  took  that  note-book  and  ran 
down  the  stairs  on  tiptoe.  Have  you  ever  listened  to 
the  pit-pat  of  a  man  running  round  and  round  the  shaft 
of  a  deep  staircase  ?  They  have  a  gaslight  at  the  bottom 
burning  night  and  day.  I  suppose  it's  gleaming  down 
there  now  .  .  .  The  sound  dies  out — the  flame  winks  ..." 

He  noticed  the  vacillation  of  surprise  passing  over  the 
steady  curiosity  of  the  black  eyes  fastened  on  his  face 
as  if  the  woman  revolutionist  received  the  sound  of  his 
voice  into  her  pupils  instead  of  her  ears.  He  checked 
himself,  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead,  confused  like 
a  man  who  has  been  dreaming  aloud. 

254 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Where  could  a  student  be  running  if  not  to  his 
lectures  in  the  morning?  At  night  it's  another  matter. 
I  did  not  care  if  all  the  house  had  been  there  to  look  at 
me.  But  I  don't  suppose  there  was  any  one.  It's  best 
not  to  be  seen  or  heard.  Aha!  The  people  that  are 
neither  seen  nor  heard  are  the  lucky  ones — in  Russia. 
Don't  you  admire  my  luck?" 

"  Astonishing,"  she  said.  "  If  you  have  luck  as  well  as 
determination  then  indeed  you  are  likely  to  turn  out  an 
invaluable  acquisition  for  the  work  in  hand." 

Her  tone  was  earnest,  and  it  seemed  to  Razumov  that 
it  was  speculative,  even  as  though  she  were  already 
apportioning  him,  in  her  mind,  his  share  of  the  work. 
Her  eyes  were  cast  down.  He  waited,  not  very  alert 
now  but  with  the  grip  of  the  ever-present  danger  giving 
him  an  air  of  attentive  gravity.  Who  could  have 
written  about  him  in  that  letter  from  Petersburg?  A 
fellow  student  surely — some  imbecile  victim  of  revolu- 
tionary propaganda,  some  foolish  slave  of  foreign,  sub- 
versive ideals.  A  long,  famine-stricken,  red-nosed 
figure  presented  itself  to  his  mental  search.  That  must 
have  been  the  fellow! 

He  smiled  inwardly  at  the  absolute  wrong-headedness 
of  the  whole  thing,  the  self-deception  of  a  criminal 
idealist  shattering  his  existence  like  a  thunder-clap  out 
of  a  clear  sky  and  re-echoing  among  the  wreckage  in  the 
false  assumptions  of  those  other  fools.  Fancy  that 
hungry  and  piteous  imbecile  furnishing  to  the  curiosity 
of  the  revolutionist  refugees  this  utterly  fantastic  detail ! 
He  appreciated  it  as  by  no  means  constituting  a  danger. 
On  the  contrary.  As  things  stood  it  was  for  his  ad- 
vantage rather,  a  piece  of  sinister  luck  which  had  only 
to  be  accepted  with  proper  caution. 

"And  yet,  Razumov,"  he  heard  the  musing  voice  of 
the  woman,  "you  have  not  the  face  of  a  lucky  man." 
She  raised  her  eyes  with  renewed  interest.  "And  so 
that  was  the  way  of  it.     After  doing  your  work  you 

255 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

simply  walked  off  and  made  for  your  rooms.  That  sort 
of  thing  succeeds  sometimes.  I  suppose  it  was  agreed 
beforehand  that,  once  the  business  over,  each  of  you 
would  go  his  own  way?" 

Razumov  preserved  the  seriousness  of  his  expression 
and  the  deliberate  if  cautious  manner  of  speaking. 

"Was  not  that  the  best  thing  to  do?"  he  asked,  in  a 
dispassionate  tone.  "And  anyway,"  he  added,  after 
waiting  a  moment,  "we  did  not  give  much  thought  to 
what  would  come  after.  We  never  discussed  formally 
any  line  of  conduct.     It  was  understood,  I  think." 

She  approved  his  statement  with  slight  nods. 

"You,  of  course,  wished  to  remain  in  Russia?" 

"In  St.  Petersburg  itself,"  emphasized  Razumov. 
"It  was  the  only  safe  course  for  me.  And,  moreover,  I 
had  nowhere  else  to  go." 

"Yes!  Yes!  I  know.  Clearly.  And  the  other — 
this  wonderful  Haldin  appearing  only  to  be  regretted — 
you  don't  know  what  he  intended?" 

Razumov  had  foreseen  that  such  a  question  would 
certainly  come  to  meet  him  sooner  or  later.  He  raised 
his  hands  a  little  and  let  them  fall  helplessly  by  his  side — 
nothing  more. 

It  was  the  white-haired  woman  conspirator  who  was 
the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"Very  curious,"  she  pronounced,  slowly.  "And  you 
did  not  think,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  that  he  might,  per- 
haps, wish  to  get  in  touch  with  you  again?" 

Razumov  discovered  that  he  could  not  suppress  the 
trembling  of  his  lips.  But  he  thought  that  he  owed  it 
to  himself  to  speak.  A  negative  sign  would  not  do 
again.  Speak  he  must,  if  only  to  get  to  the  bottom  of 
what  that  Petersburg  letter  might  have  contained. 

"I  stayed  at  home  next  day,"  he  said,  bending  down 
a  little  and  plunging  his  glance  into  the  black  eyes  of  the 
woman  so  that  she  should  not  observe  the  trembling  of 
his  lips.     "Yes,  I  stayed  at  home.     As  my  actions  are 

256 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

remembered  and  written  about  then,  perhaps,  you  are 
aware  that  I  was  not  seen  at  the  lectures  next  day.  Eh  ? 
You  didn't  know?  Well,  I  stopped  at  home — the  live- 
long day." 

As  if  moved  by  his  agitated  tone,  she  murmured  a 
sympathetic  "  I  see!     It  must  have  been  trying  enough." 

"You  seem  to  understand  one's  feelings,"  said  Raz- 
umov,  steadily.  "It  was  trying.  It  was  horrible:  it 
was  an  atrocious  day.     It  was  not  the  last." 

"  Yes,  I  understand.  Afterward  when  you  heard  they 
had  got  him.  Don't  I  know  how  one  feels  after  losing  a 
comrade  in  the  good  fight.  One's  ashamed  of  being  left. 
And  I  can  remember  so  many.  Never  mind.  They 
shall  be  avenged  before  long.  And  what  is  death?  At 
any  rate  it  is  not  a  shameful  thing  like  some  kinds  of 
life." 

Razumov  felt  something  stir  in  his  breast,  a  sort  of 
feeble  and  unpleasant  tremor. 

"Some  kinds  of  life,"  he  repeated,  looking  at  her 
searchingly. 

"The  subservient,  submissive  life.  Life!  No!  Veg- 
etation on  the  filthy  heap  of  iniquity,  which  the  world  is. 
Life,  Razumov,  not  to  be  vile,  must  be  a  revolt — a  pitiless 
protest — all  the  time." 

She  calmed  down,  the  gleam  of  suffused  tears  in  her 
eyes  dried  out  instantly  by  the  heat  of  her  passion,  and 
it  was  in  her  capable  businesslike  manner  that  she  went 
on. 

"You  understand  me,  Razumov.  You  are  not  an 
enthusiast,  but  there  is  an  immense  force  of  revolt  in  you. 
I  felt  it  from  the  first,  directly  I  set  my  eyes  on  you — 
you  remember — in  Zurich.  Oh!  You  are  full  of  bitter 
revolt.  That  is  good.  Indignation  flags  sometimes, 
revenge  itself  may  become  a  weariness,  but  that  uncom- 
promising sense  of  necessity  and  justice  which  armed 
your  and  Haldin's  hands  to  strike  down  that  fanatical 
brute  ...  for  it  was  that — ^nothing  but  that!     I  have 

257 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

been  thinking  it  out.     It  could  have  been  nothing  else 
but  that." 

Razumov  made  a  slight  bow,  the  irony  of  which  was 
concealed  by  an  almost  sinister  immobility  of  feature. 

**I  can't  speak  for  the  dead.  As  for  myself,  I  can 
assure  you  that  my  conduct  was  dictated  by  necessity 
and  by  the  sense  of — well — retributive  justice." 

"Good,  that,"  he  said  to  himself,  while  her  eyes  rested 
upon  him,  black  and  impenetrable  like  the  mental 
caverns  where  revolutionary  thought  should  sit  plotting 
the  violent  way  of  its  dream  of  changes.  As  if  anything 
could  be  changed !  In  this  world  of  men  nothing  can  be 
changed — neither  happiness  nor  misery.  They  can  only 
be  displaced  at  the  cost  of  corrupted  consciences  and 
broken  lives — sl  futile  game  for  arrogant  philosophers 
and  sanguinary  triflers.  Those  thoughts  darted  through 
Razumov's  head  while  he  stood  facing  the  old  revolu- 
tionary hand,  the  respected,  trusted,  and  influential 
Sophia  Antonovna,  whose  word  had  such  a  weight  in  the 
"active"  section  of  every  party.  She  was  much  more 
representative  than  the  great  Peter  Ivanovitch.  Stripped 
of  rhetoric,  mysticism,  and  theories,  she  was  the  true 
spirit  of  destructive  revolution.  And  she  was  the 
personal  adversary  he  had  to  meet.  It  gave  him  a  feel- 
ing of  hardly  triumphant  pleasure  to  deceive  her  out  of 
her  own  mouth.  The  epigrammatic  saying  that  speech 
has  been  given  to  us  for  the  purpose  of  concealing  our 
thoughts  came  into  his  mind.  Of  that  cynical  theory 
this  was  a  very  subtle  and  a  very  scornful  application, 
flouting,  in  its  own  words,  the  very  spirit  of  ruthless 
revolution,  embodied  in  that  woman,  with  her  white 
hair  and  black  eyebrows,  like  slightly  sinuous  lines  of 
India  ink,  traced  upward  from  the  two  heavy  perpen- 
dicular folds  of  a  thoughtful  frown. 

''That's  it.  Retributive.  No  pity,"  was  the  con- 
clusion of  her  silence.  And,  this  once  broken,  she  went 
on  impulsively  in  short,  vibrating  sentences. 

258 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Listen  to  me,  Razumov!  .  .  ."  Her  father  was  a 
clever  but  unlucky  artisan.  No  joy  had  lighted  up  his 
laborious  days.  He  died  at  fifty,  all  the  years  of  his  life 
he  had  panted  under  the  thumb  of  masters  whose  rapac- 
ity exacted  from  him  the  price  of  the  water,  of  the  salt, 
of  the  very  air  he  breathed :  taxed  the  sweat  of  his  brow 
and  claimed  the  blood  of  his  sons.  No  protection,  no 
guidance!  What  had  society  to  say  to  him?  Be  sub- 
missive and  be  honest.  If  you  rebel,  I  shall  kill  you.  If 
you  steal,  I  shall  imprison  you.  But  if  you  suffer,  I  have 
nothing  for  you — nothing  except,  perhaps,  a  beggarly 
dole  of  bread — but  no  consolation  for  your  trouble,  no 
respect  for  your  manhood,  no  pity  for  the  sorrows  of 
your  miserable  life. 

And  so  he  labored,  he  suffered,  and  he  died.  He  died 
in  the  hospital.  Standing  by  the  common  grave,  she 
thought  of  his  tormented  life — she  saw  it  whole.  She 
reckoned  the  simple  joys  of  life,  the  birthright  of  the 
humblest,  of  which  his  gentle  heart  had  been  robbed  by 
the  crime  of  a  society  which  nothing  can  absolve. 

"Yes,  Razumov,"  she  went  on  in  an  impressive,  low- 
ered voice,  "it  was  like  a  lurid  light  in  which  I  stood, 
still  almost  a  child,  and  cursed  not  the  toil,  not  the 
misery  which  had  been  his  lot,  but  the  great  social  in- 
iquity of  the  system  resting  on  unrequited  toil  and  unpit- 
ied  sufferings.    From  that  moment  I  was  a  revolutionist." 

Razumov,  trying  to  raise  himself  above  the  dangerous 
weaknesses  of  contempt  or  compassion,  had  preserved  an 
impassive  countenance.  She,  too,  stood  quiet  before 
him,  and,  with  an  unexpected  touch  of  mere  bitterness, 
the  first  he  could  notice  since  he  had  come  in  contact 
with  the  woman,  she  went  on : 

"As  I  could  not  go  to  the  church  where  the  priests  of 
the  system  exhorted  such  unconsidered  vermin  as  I  to 
resignation,  I  went  to  the  secret  societies  as  soon  a's  I 
knew  how  to  find  my  way.  I  was  sixteen  years  old — no 
more,  Razumov!     And — look  at  my  white  hair." 

2S9 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

In  these  last  words  there  was  neither  pride  nor  sad- 
ness.    The  bitterness,  too,  was  gone. 

"And  long!  There  is  a  lot  of  it.  I  had  always  mag- 
nificent hair  even  as  a  chit  of  a  girl.  Only  at  that  time 
we  were  cutting  it  short  and  thinking  that  there  was  the 
first  step  toward  crushing  the  social  infamy.  Crush  the 
infamy!  A  fine  watchword!  I  would  placard  it  on  the 
walls  of  prisons  and  palaces,  carve  it  on  hard  rocks,  hang 
it  out  in  letters  of  fire  on  that  empty  sky  for  a  sign  of 
hope  and  terror — a  portent  of  the  end.  ..." 

"You  are  eloquent,  Sophia  Antonovna,"  Razumov 
interrupted,  suddenly.  "Only  so  far  you  seem  to  have 
been  writing  it  in  water.  ..." 

She  was  checked,  but  w:iot  offended.  "Who  knows? 
Very  soon  it  may  become  a  fact  written  all  over  that 
great  land  of  ours,"  she  hinted,  meaningly.  "And  then 
one  would  have  lived  long  enough.  White  hair  won't 
matter." 

Razumov  looked  at  her  white  hair ;  and  this  mark  of  so 
many  uneasy  years  seemed  nothing  but  a  testimony  to 
the  invincible  vigor  of  revolt.  It  threw  out  into  an 
astonishing  relief  the  un wrinkled  face,  the  brilliant, 
black  glance,  the  upright  compact  figure,  the  simple, 
brisk  self-possession  of  the  mature  personality  as 
though  in  her  revolutionary  pilgrimage  she  had  dis- 
covered the  secret,  not  of  everlasting  youth,  but  of  ever- 
lasting endurance. 

"How  un-Rtissian  she  looks!"  thought  Razumov. 
Her  mother  might  have  been  a  Jewess  or  an  Armenian 
or — devil  knows  what.  He  reflected  that  a  revolutionist 
is  seldom  true  to  the  settled  type.  All  revolt  is  the  ex- 
pression of  strong  individualism — ran  his  thought, 
vaguely.  One  can  tell  them  a  mile  off  in  any  society,  in 
any  surroundings.   It  was  astonishing  that  the  police  .  .  . 

"We  shall  not  meet  again  very  soon,  I  think,"  she  was 
saying.     "I  am  leaving  to-morrow." 

"For  Zurich?"  Razumov  asked,  casually,  but  feeling 
260 


UNDER    WESTERN     EYES 

relieved,  not  from  any  distinct  apprehension,  but  rather 
from  a  feeling  of  stress  as  if  after  a  wrestling-match. 
That  was  over! 

"Yes,  Zurich — and  farther  on,  perhaps,  much  farther. 
Another  journey.  When  I  think  of  all  my  journeys! 
The  last  must  come  some  day.  Never  mind,  Razumov. 
We  had  to  have  a  good  long  talk.  I  am  glad  we  had  it, 
like  this,  here,  unexpectedly.  But  I  would  have  cer- 
tainly tried  to  see  you  if  we  had  not  met.  Peter  Ivano- 
vitch  knows  where  you  live?  Yes.  I  meant  to  have 
asked  him — but  it's  better  like  this.  You  see,  we  ex- 
pect two  more  men;  and  I  had  much  rather  wait  here 
with  you  than  up  there  at  the  house  with  ...   ." 

Having  cast  a  glance  beyond  the  gate,  she  interrupted 
herself.  "Here  they  are,"  she  said,  rapidly.  "Well, 
Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  we  shall  have  to  say  good-by." 


IV 


IN  his  incertitude  of  the  ground  on  which  he  stood, 
Razumov  felt  perturbed.  Turning  his  head  quickly 
he  saw  two  men  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road.  Seeing 
themselves  noticed  by  Sophia  Antonovna,  they  crossed 
over  at  once  and  passed,  one  after  another,  through  the 
little  gate  by  the  side  of  the  empty  lodge.  They  looked 
hard  at  the  stranger,  but  without  mistrust,  the  crimson 
blouse  being  a  flaring  safety  signal.  The  first,  great, 
white,  hairless  face,  double  chin,  prominent  stomach, 
which  he  seemed  to  carry  forward  consciously  within 
a  strongly  distended  overcoat,  only  nodded  and  averted 
his  eyes  peevishly;  his  companion,  lean,  flushed  cheek- 
bones, a  military,  red  mustache  below  a  sharp,  salient 
nose,  approached  at  once  Sophia  Antonovna,  greeting 
her  warmly.  His  voice  was  very  strong,  but  inarticu- 
late. It  sounded  like  a  deep  buzzing.  The  woman  revo- 
lutionist was  quietly  cordial. 

"This  is  Razumov,"  she  announced,  in  a  clear  voice. 

The  lean  new-comer  made  an  eager  half -turn.  "He 
will  want  to  embrace  me,"  thought  our  young  man,  with 
a  deep  recoil  of  all  his  being,  while  his  limbs  seemed  too 
heavy  to  move.  But  it  was  a  groundless  alarm.  He 
had  to  do  now  with  a  generation  of  conspirators  which 
did  not  kiss  each  other  on  both  cheeks,  and,  raising 
an  arm  that  felt  like  lead,  he  dropped  his  hand  into 
a  largely  outstretched  palm,  fleshless  and  hot  as  if 
dried  up  by  fever,  giving  a  bony  pressure,  expressive, 
seeming  to  say,  "Between  us  there's  no  need  of 
words." 

262 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

The  man  had  clear,  wide-open  eyes.  Razumov  fancied 
he  could  see  a  smile  behind  their  sadness. 

"This  is  Razumov,"  Sophia  Antonovna  repeated 
loudly  for  the  benefit  of  the  fat  man,  who,  at  some  dis- 
tance, displayed  the  profile  of  his  stomach. 

No  one  moved.  Everything  —  sounds,  attitudes, 
movements,  and  immobility — seemed  to  be  part  of  an 
experiment,  whose  result  was  a  thin  voice  piping  with 
comic  peevishness. 

"Oh  yes!  Razumov.  We  have  been  hearing  of 
nothing  but  Mr.  Razumov  for  months.  For  my  part, 
I  confess  I  would  rather  have  seen  Haldin  on  this  spot 
instead  of  Mr.  Razumov." 

The  squeaky  stress  put  on  the  name  "Razumov — 
Mr.  Razumov"  pierced  the  ear  ridiculously  like  the 
falsetto  of  a  circus  clown  beginning  an  elaborate  joke. 
Astonishment  was  Razumov's  first  response,  followed 
by  a  sudden  indignation. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  asked,  in  a  stem 
tone. 

"Tut.  Silliness.  He's  always  like  that."  Sophia 
Antonovna  was  obviously  vexed.  But  she  dropped  the 
information  "Necator"  from  her  lips  just  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  by  Razumov.  The  abrupt  squeaks  of  the 
fat  man  seemed  to  proceed  from  that  thing  like  a  bal- 
loon he  carried  under  his  overcoat.  The  stolidity  of 
his  attitude,  the  big  feet,  the  lifeless,  hanging  hands,  the 
enormous  bloodless  cheek,  the  thin  wisps  of  hair  strag- 
gling down  the  fat  nape  of  the  neck,  fascinated  Razumov 
into  a  stare  on  the  verge  of  horror  and  laughter. 

Nikita,  surnamed  Necator,  with  a  sinister  aptness  of 
alliteration!  Razumov  had  heard  of  him.  He  had 
heard  so  much  since  crossing  the  frontier  of  these  celebri- 
ties of  the  militant  revolution ;  the  legends,  the  stories, 
the  authentic  chronicle,  which  now  and  then  peeps  out 
before  a  half-incredulous  world.  Razumov  had  heard 
of  him.  He  was  supposed  to  have  killed  more  gendarmes 
18  263 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

and  police  agents  than  any  revolutionist  living.  He 
had  been  intrusted  with  executions.  The  paper  with 
the  letters  N.  N.,  the  very  pseudonym  of  murder,  found 
pinned  on  the  stabbed  breast  of  a  certain  notorious  spy 
(this  picturesque  detail  of  a  sensational  murder  case  had 
got  into  the  newspapers),  was  the  mark  of  his  handiwork. 
"By  order  of  the  Committee.  N.  N."  A  corner  of  the 
curtain  lifted  to  strike  the  imagination  of  the  gaping 
world.  He  was  said  to  have  been  innumerable  times  in 
and  out  of  Russia,  the  Necator  of  bureaucrats,  of  provin- 
cial governors,  of  obscure  informers.  He  lived  between 
whiles,  Razumov  had  heard,  on  the  shores  of  the  Lake 
of  Como  with  a  charming  wife,  devoted  to  the  cause,  and 
two  young  children.  But  how  could  that  creature,  so 
grotesque  as  to  set  town  dogs  barking  at  its  mere 
sight,  go  about  on  those  deadly  errands  and  slip  through 
the  meshes  of  the  police! 

"  What  now,  what  now?"  the  voice  squeaked.  ** I  am 
only  sincere.  It's  not  denied  that  the  other  was  the 
leading  spirit.  Well,  it  would  have  been  better  if  he  had 
been  the  one  spared  to  us.  More  useful.  I  am  not 
a  sentimentalist.  Say  what  I  think  .  .  .  only  nat- 
ural." 

Squeak,  squeak,  squeak,  without  a  gesture,  without  a 
stir — ^the  horrible  squeakly  burlesque  of  professional 
jealousy — this  man  of  a  sinister  alliterative  nickname, 
this  executioner  of  revolutionary  verdicts,  the  terrify- 
ing "N.N."  exasperated  like  a  fashionable  tenor  by  the 
attention  attracted  to  the  performance  of  an  obscure 
amateur.  Sophia  Antonovna  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
The  comrade  with  the  martial  red  mustache  hurried 
toward  Razumov  full  of  conciliatory  intentions  in  his 
strong,  buzzing  voice. 

"Devil  take  it!  And  in  this  place,  too,  in  the  public 
street,  so  to  speak.  But  you  can  see  yourself  how  it  is. 
One  of  his  fantastic  sallies.  Absolutely  of  no  conse- 
quence." 

264 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Pray  don't  concern  yourself,"  cried  Razumov,  going 
off  into  a  long  fit  of  laughter.     '*  Don't  mention  it." 

The  other  —  his  hectic  flush  crimson  like  a  pair  of 
burns  on  his  cheek-bones — stared  for  a  moment  and 
burst  out  laughing,  too.  Razumov,  whose  hilarity  died 
out  all  at  once,  made  a  step  forward. 

"Enough  of  this,"  he  began,  in  a  clear,  incisive  voice, 
though  he  had  discovered  that  he  could  hardly  control 
the  trembling  of  his  legs.  "  I  will  have  no  more  of  it.  I 
shall  not  permit  any  one  ...  I  can  see  very  well  what 
you  are  at  with  those  allusions.  .  .  .  Inquire,  investigate! 
I  defy  you,  but  I  will  not  be  played  with." 

He  had  spoken  such  words  before.  He  had  been 
driven  to  cry  them  out  in  the  face  of  other  suspicions. 
It  was  an  infernal  cycle  bringing  round  that  protest  like 
a  fatal  necessity  of  his  existence.  But  it  was  no  use. 
He  would  be  always  played  with.  Luckily,  life  does  not 
last  forever. 

** I  won't  have  it!"  he  shouted,  striking  his  fist  into  the 
palm  of  his  other  hand. 

"Kirylo  Sidorovitch — what  has  come  to  you?"  The 
woman  revolutionist  interfered  with  authority.  They 
were  all  looking  at  Razumov  now;  the  slayer  of  spies  and 
gendarmes  had  turned  about,  presenting  his  enormous 
stomach  in  full,  like  a  shield. 

"Don't  shout.  There  are  people  passing."  Sophia 
Antonovna  was  apprehensive  of  another  outburst.  A 
steam-launch  from  Monrepos  had  come  to  the  landing- 
stage  opposite  the  gate,  its  hoarse  whistle  and  the 
churning  noise  alongside  all  unnoticed,  had  landed  a 
small  bunch  of  local  passengers,  who  were  dispersing 
their  several  ways.  Only  a  specimen  of  early  tourist  in 
knickerbockers,  conspicuous  by  a  brand-new  yellow- 
leather  glass-case,  hung  about  for  a  moment,  scenting 
something  unusual  about  these  four  people  within  the 
rusty  iron  gates  of  what  looked  the  grounds  run  wild  of 
an  unoccupied  private  house.    Ah!  if  he  had  only  known 

265 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

what  the  chance  of  commonplace  traveling  had  suddenly 
put  in  his  way!  But  he  was  a  well-bred  person;  he 
averted  his  gaze  and  moved  off  with  short  steps  along  the 
avenue,  on  the  watch  for  a  tram-car. 

A  gesture  from  Sophia  Antonovna — "Leave  him  to 
me  " — had  sent  the  two  men  away — the  buzzing  of  the  in- 
articulate voice  growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  the  thin 
pipe  of  "What  now,  what's  the  matter?"  reduced  to  the 
proportions  of  a  squeaking  toy  by  the  distance.  They 
had  left  him  to  her.  So  many  things  could  be  left  safely 
to  the  experience  of  Sophia  Antonovna.  And  at  once  her 
black  eyes  turned  to  Razumov,  her  mind  tried  to  get  at 
the  heart  of  that  outburst.  It  had  some  meaning.  No 
one  is  born  an  active  revolutionist.  The  change  comes 
disturbingly  with  the  force  of  a  sudden  vocation,  bringing 
in  its  train  agonizing  doubts,  assertive  violences,  an  un- 
stable state  of  the  soul,  till  the  final  appeasement  of  the 
convert  in  the  perfect  fierceness  of  conviction.  She  had 
seen — often  had  only  divined — scores  of  these  young 
men  and  young  women  going  through  an  emotional 
crisis.  This  young  man  looked  like  a  moody  egotist. 
And,  besides,  it  was  a  special — a  unique  case.  There 
was  something  cautious  in  her  warning  speech. 

"Take  care,  Razumov,  my  good  friend.  If  you  carry 
on  like  this  you  will  go  mad.  You  are  angry  with  every- 
body and  bitter  with  yourself  and  on  the  lookout  for 
something  to  torment  yourself  with." 

"It's  intolerable!"  Razumov  could  only  speak  in 
gasps.  "You  must  admit  that  I  can  have  no  illusions 
on  the  attitude  which  ...  it  isn't  clear  ...  or  rather 
.  .  .  only  too  clear." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  It  was  not  his  cour- 
age that  failed  him.  The  choking  fumes  of  falsehood 
had  taken  him  by  the  throat — the  thought  of  being  con- 
demned to  struggle  on  and  on  in  that  tainted  atmos- 
phere without  the  hope  of  ever  renewing  his  strength 
by  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 

266 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"A  glass  of  cold  water  is  what  you  want."  Sophia  An- 
tonovna  glanced  up  the  grounds  at  the  house  and  shook 
her  head,  then  out  of  the  gate  at  the  brimful  placidity  of 
the  lake.  With  a  half-comical  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
she  gave  the  remedy  up  in  the  face  of  that  abundance. 

"It  is  you,  my  dear  soul,  who  are  flinging  yourself  at 
something  which  does  not  exist.  What  is  it?  Self- 
reproach — or  what?  It's  absurd.  You  couldn't  have 
gone  and  given  yourself  up  because  your  comrade  was 
taken." 

She  spoke  reasonably,  at  some  length,  too.  Razumov 
had  nothing  to  complain  of  in  his  reception.  Every  new- 
comer was  discussed  more  or  less.  Everybody  had  to  be 
thoroughly  understood  before  being  accepted.  No  one 
that  she  could  remember  had  been  shown  from  the  first 
so  much  confidence.  Soon,  very  soon,  perhaps  sooner 
than  he  expected,  he  would  be  given  an  opportunity  of 
showing  his  devotion  to  the  sacred  task  of  crushing  the 
infamy. 

Razumov,  listening  quietly,  thought :  "It  may  be  that 
she  is  trying  to  lull  my  suspicions  to  sleep.  On  the  other 
hand,  it's  obvious  that  most  of  them  are  fools."  He 
moved  aside  a  couple  of  paces  and,  folding  his  arms  on 
his  breast,  leaned  back  against  the  stone  pillar  of  the 
gate. 

"As  to  what  remains  obscure  in  the  fate  of  that  poor 
Hal  din,"  Sophia  Antonovna  dropped  into  a  slowness 
of  utterance  which  was  to  Razumov  like  the  falling  of 
molten  lead  drop  by  drop.  "As  to  that — though  no  one 
ever  hinted  that  either  from  fear  or  neglect  your  con- 
duct has  not  been  what  it  should  have  been — well,  I  have 
a  bit  of  intelligence  ..." 

Razumov  could  not  prevent  himself  from  raising  his 
head,  and  Sophia  Antonovna  nodded  slightly. 

"I  have.  You  remember  that  letter  from  Peters- 
burg?" 

"The  letter?  Perfectly.  Some  busybody  has  been 
267 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

reporting  my  conduct  on  a  certain  day.  It's  rather 
sickening.  I  suppose  our  police  are  greatly  edified  when 
they  open  these  interesting  and — ^and — superfluous  let- 
ters." 

**0h,  dear,  no!  The  police  do  not  get  hold  of  our 
letters  as  easily  as  you  imagine.  The  letter  in  ques- 
tion did  not  leave  Petersburg  till  the  ice  broke  up.  It 
went  by  the  first  English  steamer  which  left  the  Neva 
this  spring.  They  have  a  fireman  on  board — one  of  us 
in  fact.     It  has  reached  me  from  Hull.  .   .  ." 

She  paused  as  if  she  were  surprised  at  the  sullen  fixity 
of  Razumov's  gaze,  but  went  on  at  once  and  much 
faster. 

"We  have  some  of  our  people  there  who  .  .  .  but 
never  mind.  The  writer  of  the  letter  relates  an  incident 
which  he  thinks  may  possibly  be  connected  with  Haldin's 
arrest.  I  was  just  going  to  tell  you  when  those  two  men 
came  along." 

''That  also  was  an  incident,"  muttered  Razumov,  **of 
a  very  charming  kind — for  me." 

"  Leave  off  that,"  cried  Sophia  Antonovna.  "  Nobody 
cares  for  Nikita's  barking.  There's  no  malice  in  him. 
Listen  to  what  I  have  to  say.  You  may  be  able  to  throw 
a  light.  There  was  in  Petersburg  a  sort  of  town  peasant 
— a  man  who  owned  horses.  He  came  to  town  years  ago 
to  work  for  some  relation  as  a  driver  and  ended  by  own- 
ing a  cab  or  two." 

She  might  well  have  spared  herself  the  slight  effort  of 
the  gesture.  "Wait!"  Razumov  did  not  mean  to 
speak;  he  could  not  have  interrupted  her  now,  not  to 
save  his  life.  The  contraction  of  his  facial  muscles  had 
been  involuntary,  a  mere  surface  stir,  leaving  him  sul- 
lenly attentive  as  before. 

"He  was  not  a  quite  ordinary  man  of  his  class — it 
seems,"  she  went  on.  "The  people  of  the  house — my 
informant  talked  with  many  of  them — you  know,  one 
of  those  enormous  houses  of  shame  and  misery.  ..." 

268 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Sophia  Antonovna  need  not  have  enlarged  on  the  char- 
acter of  the  house.  Razumov  saw  clearly,  towering  at 
her  back,  a  dark  mass  of  masonry  veiled  in  snowfiakes, 
with  the  long  row  of  windows  of  the  eating-shop  shining 
greasily  very  near  the  ground.  The  ghost  of  that  night 
pursued  him.  He  stood  up  to  it  with  rage  and  with 
weariness. 

"Did  the  late  Haldin  ever  by  chance  speak  to  you  of 
that  house?"  Sophia  Antonovna  was  anxious  to  know. 

*'Yes."  Razumov,  making  that  answer,  wondered 
whether  he  were  falling  into  a  trap.  It  was  so  humiliat- 
ing to  lie  to  these  people  that  he  probably  could  not  have 
said  no.  "He  mentioned  to  me  once,"  he  added,  as  if 
making  an  effort  of  memory,  "a  house  of  that  sort.  He 
used  to  visit  some  workmen  there." 

"Exactly." 

Sophia  Antonovna  triumphed.  Her  correspondent 
had  discovered  that  fact  quite  accidentally  from  the  talk 
of  the  people  of  the  house,  having  made  friends  with  a 
workman  who  occupied  a  room  there.  They  described 
Haldin's  appearance  perfectly.  He  brought  comforting 
words  of  hope  into  their  misery.  He  came  irregularly, 
but  he  came  very  often,  and — her  correspondent  wrote 
— sometimes  he  spent  a  night  in  the  house,  sleeping,  they 
thought,  in  a  stable  which  opened  upon  the  inner  yard. 

"Note  that,  Razumov!     In  a  stable." 

Razumov  had  listened  with  a  sort  of  ferocious  but 
amused  acquiescenc'e. 

"Yes.  In  the  straw.  It  was  probably  the  cleanest 
spot  in  the  whole  house." 

"No  doubt,"  assented  the  woman  with  that  deep 
frown  which  seemed  to  draw  closer  together  her  black 
eyes  in  a  sinister  fashion.  No  four-footed  beast  could 
stand  the  filth  and  wretchedness  so  many  human  beings 
were  condemned  to  suffer  from  in  Russia.  The  point  of 
this  discovery  was  that  it  proved  Haldin  to  have  been 
familiar  with  that  horse-owning  peasant — a  reckless,  in- 

269 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

dependent,  free-living  fellow  not  much  liked  by  the  other 
inhabitants  of  the  house.  He  was  believed  to  have  been 
the  associate  of  a  band  of  house-breakers.  Some  of  these 
got  captured.  Not  while  he  was  driving  them,  however, 
but  still  there  was  a  suspicion  against  the  fellow  of  having 
given  a  hint  to  the  police  and  .  .  . 

The  woman  revolutionist  checked  herself  suddenly. 

**  And  you  ?  Have  you  ever  heard  your  friend  refer  to 
a  certain  Ziemianitch  ?" 

Razumov  was  ready  for  the  name.  He  had  been  look- 
ing out  for  the  question.  **When  it  comes  I  shall  own 
up,"  he  had  said  to  himself.     But  he  took  his  time. 

'*To  be  sure!"  he  began,  slowly.  "Ziemianitch,  a 
peasant  owning  a  team  of  horses.  Yes.  On  one  occa- 
sion. Ziemianitch!  Certainly!  Ziemianitch  of  the 
horses.  .  .  .  How  could  it  have  slipped  my  memory  like 
this?     One  of  the  last  conversations  we  had  together." 

*'That  means" — Sophia  Antonovna  looked  very  grave 
— "that  means,  Razumov,  it  was  very  shortly  before — 
eh?" 

"Before  what?"  shouted  Razumov,  advancing  at  the 
woman,  who  looked  astonished  but  stood  her  ground. 
"Before —  Oh!  Of  course  it  was  before!  How  could 
it  have  been  after?     Only  a  few  hours  before." 

"And  favorably?" 

"With  enthusiasm!  The  horses  of  Ziemianitch!  The 
free  soul  of  Ziemianitch." 

Razumov  took  a  savage  delight  in  the  loud  utterance 
of  that  name  which  had  never  before  crossed  his  lips 
audibly.  He  fixed  his  blazing  eyes  on  the  woman  till  at 
last  her  fascinated  expression  recalled  him  to  himself. 

"The  late  Haldin,"  he  said,  holding  himself  in  with 
downcast  eyes,  "was  inclined  to  take  sudden  fancies  to 
people,  on — what  shall  I  say — insufficient  grounds." 

"There!"  Sophia  Antonovna  clapped  her  hands. 
"That,  to  my  mind,  settles  it.  The  suspicions  of  my 
correspondent  were  aroused.  .  .  .", 

270 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Aha!  Your  correspondent,"  Razumov  said,  in  an 
almost  openly  mocking  tone.  ''What  suspicions?  How 
aroused  ?  By  this  Ziemianitch  ?  Probably  some  drunken, 
gabbling,  plausible.  ..." 

"  You  talk  as  if  you  had  known  him." 

Razumov  looked  up. 

"No.     But  I  knew  Haldin." 

Sophia  Antonovna  nodded  gravely. 

"  I  see.  Every  word  you  say  confirms  to  my  mind  the 
suspicion  communicated  to  me  in  that  very  interesting 
letter.  This  Ziemianitch  was  found  one  morning  hang- 
ing from  a  hook  in  the  stable — dead." 

Razumov  felt  a  profound  trouble.  It  was  visible,  be- 
cause Sophia  Antonovna  was  moved  to  observe,  viva- 
ciously : 

"Aha!     You  begin  to  see." 

He  saw  it  clearly  enough — in  the  light  of  a  lantern 
casting  spokes  of  shadow  in  a  cellar-like  stable,  the  body 
in  a  sheepskin  coat  and  long  boots  hanging  against  the 
wall.  A  pointed  hood,  with  the  ends  wound  about  up 
to  the  eyes,  hid  the  face.  "But  that  does  not  concern 
me,"  he  reflected.  "It  does  not  affect  my  position  at 
all.  He  never  knew  who  had  thrashed  him.  He  could 
not  have  known."  Razumov  felt  sorry  for  the  old  lover 
of  the  bottle  and  women. 

"Yes.  Some  of  them  end  like  that,"  he  muttered. 
"What  is  your  idea,  Sophia  Antonovna?" 

It  was  the  idea  of  her  correspondent.  Sophia  Anto- 
novna had  adopted  it  fully.  She  stated  it  in  one  word — 
"Remorse."  Razumov  opened  his  eyes  very  wide  at 
that.  Sophia  Antonovna 's  informant,  by  listening  to  the 
talk  of  the  house,  by  putting  this  and  that  together,  had 
managed  to  come  very  near  to  the  truth  of  Haldin's 
relation  to  Ziemianitch. 

"  It  is  I  who  can  tell  you  what  you  were  not  certain  of 
— ^that  your  friend  had  some  plan  for  saving  himself 
afterward,  for  getting  out  of  Petersburg,  at  any  rate. 

271 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Perhaps  that  and  no  more,  trusting  to  luck  for  the  rest. 
And  that  fellow's  horses  were  part  of  the  plan." 

"They  have  actually  got  at  the  truth,"  Razumov 
marveled  to  himself  while  he  nodded  judicially.  **Yes, 
that's  possible,  very  possible."  But  the  woman  revolu- 
tionist was  very  positive  that  it  was  so.  First  of  all 
a  conversation  about  horses  between  Haldin  and 
Ziemianitch  had  been  partly  overheard.  Then  there 
were  the  suspicions  of  the  people  in  the  house  when 
their  "young  gentleman"  (they  did  not  know  Haldin 
by  his  name)  ceased  to  call  at  the  house.  Some  of  them 
used  to  charge  Ziemianitch  with  knowing  something  of 
this  absence.  He  denied  it  with  exasperation;  but  the 
fact  was  that  ever  since  Haldin's  disappearance  he  was 
not  himself,  growing  moody  and  thin.  Finally,  during  a 
quarrel  with  some  woman  (to  whom  he  was  making  up) 
in  which  most  of  the  inmates  of  the  house  took  part, 
apparently,  he  was  openly  abused  by  his  chief  enemy,  an 
athletic  peddler,  for  an  informer,  and  for  having  driven 
"our  young  gentleman  to  Siberia,  the  same  as  you  did 
those  young  fellows  who  broke  into  houses."  In  con- 
sequence of  this,  there  was  a  fight,  and  Ziemianitch  got 
flung  down  a  flight  of  stairs.  Thereupon  he  drank  and 
moped  for  a  week  and  then  hanged  himself. 

Sophia  Antonovna  drew  her  conclusions  from  the  tale. 
She  charged  Ziemianitch  either  with  drunken  indiscre- 
tion as  to  a  driving  job  on  a  certain  date,  overheard 
by  some  spy  in  some  low  grog-shop — perhaps  in  the 
very  eating-shop  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  house — or, 
maybe,  a  downright  denunciation — then  remorse.  A 
man  like  that  would  be  capable  of  an3rthing.  People 
said  he  was  a  flighty  old  chap.  And  if  he  had  been 
once  before  mixed  up  with  the  police — as  seemed  cer- 
tain, though  he  always  denied  it — in  connection  with 
these  thieves,  he  would  be  sure  to  be  acquainted  with 
some  police  underlings,  always  on  the  lookout  for  some- 
thing  to   report.     Possibly  at   first    his   tale  was  not 

272 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

made  anything  of  till  the  day  that  scoundrel  De  P 

got  his  deserts.  Ah!  But  then  every  bit  and  scrap  of 
hint  and  information  would  be  acted  on,  and  fatally 
they  were  bound  to  get  Haldin. 

Sophia  Antonovna  spread  out  her  hands — "Fatally." 

Fatality — chance!  Razumov  meditated  in  silent  as- 
tonishment upon  the  queer  verisimilitude  of  these  in- 
ferences.    They  were  obviously  to  his  advantage. 

"It  is  right  now  to  make  this  conclusive  evidence 
known  generally."  Sophia  Antonovna  was  very  calm 
and  deliberate  again.  She  had  received  the  letter  three 
days  ago,  but  did  not  write  at  once  to  Peter  Ivanovitch. 
She  knew  then  that  she  would  have  the  opportunity 
presently  of  meeting  several  men  of  action  assembled  for 
an  important  purpose. 

"I  thought  it  would  be  more  effective  if  I  could 
show  the  letter  itself  at  large.  I  have  it  in  my  pocket 
now.  You  understand  how  pleased  I  was  to  come  upon 
you." 

Razumov  was  saying  to  himself:  "She  won't  offer  to 
show  the  letter  to  me.  Not  likely.  Has  she  told  me 
everything  that  correspondent  of  hers  has  found  out?" 
...  He  would  have  liked  to  see  the  letter,  but  he  felt  he 
must  not  ask. 

"Tell  me,  please,  was  this  an  investigation  ordered,  as 
it  were?" 

"No,  no,"  she  protested.  "There  you  are  again  with 
your  sensitiveness.  It  makes  you  stupid.  Don't  you 
see  there  was  no  starting-point  for  an  investigation,  even 
if  any  one  had  thought  of  it.  A  perfect  blank!  That's 
exactly  what  some  people  were  pointing  out  as  the  reason 
for  receiving  you  cautiously.  It  was  all  perfectly  acci- 
dental, arising  from  my  informant  striking  an  acquaint- 
ance with  an  intelligent  skin  -  dresser  lodging  in  that 
particular  slum-house.     A  wonderful  coincidence!" 

"A  pious  person,"  suggested  Razumov,  with  a  pale 
smile,  "would  say  that  the  hand  of  God  has  done  it  all." 

273 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"My  poor  father  would  have  said  that."  Sophia  An- 
tonovna  did  not  smile.  She  dropped  her  eyes.  "Not 
that  his  God  ever  helped  him.  It's  a  long  time  since 
God  has  done  anything  for  the  people.  Anyway,  it's 
done." 

"All  this  would  be  quite  final,"  said  Razumov,  with 
every  appearance  of  reflective  impartiality,  "if  there  was 
any  certitude  that  the  'our  young  gentleman'  of  these 
people  was  Victor  Haldin,     Have  we  got  that?" 

"Yes.  There's  no  mistake.  My  correspondent  was 
as  familiar  with  Haldin's  personal  appearance  as  with 
your  own,"  the  woman  affirmed,  decisively. 

"It's  the  red-nosed  fellow  beyond  a  doubt,"  Razumov 
said  to  himself  with  re-awakened  uneasiness.  Had  his 
own  visit  to  that  accursed  house  passed  unnoticed?  It 
was  barely  possible.  Yet  it  was  hardly  probable.  It 
was  just  the  right  sort  of  food  for  the  popular  gossip  that 
gaunt  busybody  had  been  picking  up.  But  the  letter 
did  not  seem  to  contain  any  allusion  to  that.  Unless 
she  had  suppressed  it.  And  if  so — why?  If  it  had 
really  escaped  the  prying  of  that  hunger-stricken  demo- 
crat with  a  confounded  genius  for  recognizing  people 
from  description,  it  could  be  only  for  a  time.  He  would 
come  upon  it  presently  and  hasten  to  write  another 
letter — and  then! 

For  all  the  envenomed  recklessness  of  his  temper  fed 
on  hate  and  disdain,  Razumov  shuddered  inwardly.  It 
guarded  him  from  common  fear,  but  it  could  not  defend 
him  from  disgust  at  being  dealt  with  in  any  way  by  these 
people.  It  was  a  sort  of  superstitious  dread.  Now, 
since  his  position  had  been  made  more  secure  by  their 
own  folly  at  the  cost  of  Ziemianitch,  he  felt  the  need  of 
perfect  safety,  with  its  freedom  from  direct  lying,  with 
its  power  of  moving  among  them  silent,  unquestioning, 
listening,  impenetrable,  like  the  very  fate  of  their  crimes 
and  their  folly.  Was  this  advantage  his  already?  Or 
not  yet  ?     Or  never  would  be  ? 

274 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Well,  Sophia  Antonovna" — his  air  of  reluctant  con- 
cession was  genuine  in  so  far  that  he  was  really  loath  to 
part  with  her  without  testing  her  sincerity  by  a  question 
it  was  impossible  to  bring  about  in  any  way — **well. 
Sophia  Antonovna,  if  that  is  so,  then  .  .  ." 

''The  creature  has  done  justice  to  himself,"  the  woman 
observed,  as  if  thinking  aloud. 

"What?  Ah,  yes!  Remorse,"  Razumov  muttered, 
with  equivocal  contempt. 

"Don't  be  harsh,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  if  you  have  lost  a 
friend."  There  was  no  hint  of  softness  in  her  tone,  only 
the  black  glitter  of  her  eyes  seemed  detached  for  an  in- 
stant from  vengeful  visions.  "He  was  a  man  of  the 
people.  The  simple  Russian  soul  is  never  wholly  im- 
penitent.    It's  something  to  know  that." 

"Consoling?"  insinuated  Razumov,  in  a  tone  of  in- 
quiry. 

"Don't  rail,"  she  checked  him,  sharply.  "Remem- 
ber, Razumov,  that  women,  children,  and  revolutionists 
hate  irony,  which  is  the  negation  of  all  saving  instincts, 
of  all  faith,  of  all  devotion,  of  all  action.  Don't  rail! 
Don't.  ...  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  there  are  moments 
when  you  are  abhorrent  to  me.  ..." 

She  averted  her  face.  A  languid  silence,  as  if  all  the 
electricity  of  the  situation  had  been  discharged  in  this 
flash  of  passion,  lasted  for  some  time.  Razumov  had 
not  flinched.  Suddenly  she  laid  the  tips  of  her  fingers 
on  his  sleeve. 

"Don't  mind." 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  said,  very  quietly. 

He  was  proud  to  feel  that  she  could  read  nothing  on 
his  face.  He  was  really  mollified,  relieved,  if  only  for  a 
moment,  from  an  obscure  oppression.  And  suddenly  he 
asked  himself:  "Why  the  devil  did  I  go  to  that  house? 
It  was  an  imbecile  thing  to  do." 

A  profound  disgust  came  over  him.  Sophia  Antonovna 
lingered,  talking  in  a  friendly  manner  with  an  evident 

275 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

conciliatory  intention.  And  it  was  still  about  the 
famous  letter,  referring  to  various  minute  details  given 
by  her  informant,  who  had  never  seen  Ziemianitch. 
The  **  victim  of  remorse"  had  been  buried  several  weeks 
before  her  correspondent  began  frequenting  the  house. 
It — the  house — contained  very  good  revolutionary  ma- 
terial. The  spirit  of  the  heroic  Haldin  had  passed 
through  these  dens  of  black  wretchedness  with  a  promise 
of  universal  redemption  from  all  the  miseries  that  oppress 
mankind.  Razumov  listened  without  hearing,  gnawed 
by  the  new-born  desire  of  safety  with  its  dependence 
from  that  degrading  method  of  direct  lying  which  at 
times  he  found  it  almost  impossible  to  practise. 

No.  The  point  he  wanted  to  hear  about  could  never 
come  into  this  conversation.  There  was  no  way  of 
bringing  it  forward.  He  regretted  not  having  composed 
a  perfect  story  for  use  abroad,  in  which  his  fatal  connec- 
tion with  the  house  might  have  been  owned  up  to.  But 
when  he  left  Russia  he  did  not  know  that  Ziemianitch 
had  hanged  himself.  And,  anyway,  who  could  have  fore- 
seen this  woman's  "  informant "  stumbling  upon  that  par- 
ticular slum,  of  all  the  slums  awaiting  destruction  in  the 
purifying  flame  of  social  revolution?  Who  could  have 
foreseen  ?  Nobody !  "  It's  a  perfectly  diabolic  surprise," 
thought  Razumov,  calm-faced  in  his  attitude  of  inscru- 
table superiority,  nodding  assent  to  Sophia  Antonovna's 
remarks  upon  the  psychology  of  the  "people."  '* Oh  yes 
— certainly,"  rather  coldly,  but  with  a  nervous  longing 
in  his  fingers  to  tear  some  sort  of  confession  out  of  her 
throat. 

Then,  at  the  very  last,  on  the  point  of  separating,  the 
feeling  of  relaxed  tension  already  upon  him,  he  heard 
Sophia  Antonovna  allude  to  the  subject  of  his  uneasiness. 
How  it  came  about  he  could  only  guess,  his  mind  being 
absent  at  the  moment,  but  it  must  have  sprung  from 
Sophia  Antonovna's  complaint  about  the  illogical  absurd- 
ity of  the  people.     For  instance — ^that  Ziemianitch  was 

276 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

looked  upon  as  notoriously  irreligious,  and  yet  in  the  last 
weeks  of  his  life  he  suffered  from  the  notion  that  he  had 
been  beaten  by  the  devil. 

"The  devil,"  repeated  Razumov,  as  though  he  had  not 
heard  aright. 

''The  actual  devil.  The  devil  in  person.  You  may 
well  look  astonished,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch.  Early  on  the 
very  night  poor  Haldin  was  taken,  a  complete  stranger 
turned  up  and  gave  Ziemianitch  a  most  fearful  thrashing 
while  he  was  lying  dead  drunk  in  the  stable.  The 
wretched  creature's  body  was  one  mass  of  bruises.  He 
showed  it  to  the  people  in  the  house." 

"  But  you,  Sophia  Antonovna — you  don't  believe  in  the 
actual  devil?" 

"Do  you?"  retorted  the  woman,  curtly.  "Not  but 
that  there  are  plenty  of  men  worse  than  devils  to  make 
a  hell  of  this  earth,"  she  muttered  to  herself. 

Razumov  watched  her,  vigorous  and  white-haired, 
with  the  deep  fold  between  her  thin  eyebrows  and  her 
black  glance  turned  idly  away.  It  was  obvious  that 
she  did  not  make  much  of  the  story — unless,  indeed, 
this  was  the  perfection  of  duplicity.  "A  dark  young 
man,"  she  explained  further.  "Never  seen  there  before, 
never  seen  afterward.  Why  are  you  smiling,  Raz- 
umov?" « 

"At  the  devil  being  still  young  after  all  these  ages," 
he  answered,  composedly.  "But  who  was  able  to  de- 
scribe him  since  the  victim,  you  say,  was  dead  drunk  at 
the  time?" 

"Oh!  The  eating-house  keeper  has  described  him. 
An  overbearing,  swarthy  young  man  in  a  student's 
cloak,  who  came  rushing  in,  demanded  Ziemianitch,  beat 
him  furiously,  and  rushed  away  without  a  word,  leaving 
the  eating-house  keeper  paralyzed  with  astonishment." 

"Does  he,  too,  believe  it  was  the  devil?" 

"  That  I  can't  say.  I  am  told  he's  very  reserved  on  the 
matter.     Those  sellers  of  spirits  are  great  scoundrels 

277 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

generally.  I  should  think  he  knows  more  of  it  than 
anybody." 

"We — and  you,  Sophia  Antonovna — what's  your  the- 
ory?" asked  Razumov,  in  a  tone  of  great  interest — 
"yours  and  your  informant's  who  is  on  the  spot?" 

"I  agree  with  him.  Some  police  hound  in  disguise. 
Who  else  would  beat  a  helpless  man  so  unmercifully? 
As  for  the  rest,  if  they  were  out  that  day  on  every  trail 
old  and  new,  it  is  probable  enough  that  they  might  have 
thought  it  just  as  well  to  have  Ziemianitch  at  hand  for 
more  information,  or  for  identification,  or  what  not. 
Some  scoundrelly  detective  was  sent  to  fetch  him  along, 
and,  being  vexed  at  finding  him  so  drunk,  broke  a  stable- 
fork  over  his  ribs.  Later  on,  after  they  had  the  big 
game  safe  in  the  net,  they  troubled  their  heads  no  more 
about  that  peasant." 

Such  were  the  last  words  of  the  woman  revolutionist  in 
this  conversation  keeping  so  close  to  the  truth,  departing 
from  it  so  far  in  the  verisimilitude  of  thoughts  and  con- 
clusions as  to  give  one  the  notion  of  the  invincible  nature 
of  human  error,  a  glimpse  into  the  utmost  depths  of  self- 
deception.  Razumov,  after  shaking  hands  with  Sophia 
Antonovna,  left  the  grounds,  crossed  the  road,  and,  walk- 
ing out  on  the  little  steamboat  pier,  leaned  over  the  rail. 

His  mind  was  at  ease ;  ease  such  as  he  had  not  known 
for  many  days,  ever  since  that  night  .  .  .  the  night. 
The  conversation  with  the  woman  revolutionist  had 
given  him  the  view  of  his  danger  at  the  very  moment 
this  danger  vanished,  characteristically  enough.  "I 
ought  to  have  foreseen  the  doubts  that  would  arise 
in  those  people's  minds,"  he  thought.  Then  his  at- 
tention being  attracted  by  a  stone  of  peculiar  shape 
which  he  could  see  clearly  lying  at  the  bottom,  he  be- 
gan to  speculate  as  to  the  depth  of  water  in  that  spot. 
But  very  soon,  with  a  start  of  wonder  at  this  extraor- 
dinary instance  of  ill-timed  detachment,  he  returned  to 
his  train  of  thought.     "I  ought  to  have  told  very  cir- 

278 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

cumstantial  lies  from  the  first,"  he  said  to  himself,  with 
a  mortal  distaste  of  the  mere  idea  which  silenced  his 
mental  utterance  for  quite  a  perceptible  interval. 
"Luckily  that's  all  right  now,"  he  reflected,  and  after 
a  time  spoke  to  himself  half  aloud:  "Thanks  to  the 
devil,"  and  laughed  a  little. 

The  end  of  Ziemianitch  then  arrested  his  wandering 
thoughts.  He  was  not  exactly  amused  at  the  interpre- 
tation, but  he  could  not  help  detecting  in  it  a  certain 
piquancy.  He  owned  to  himself  that,  had  he  known  of 
that  suicide  before  leaving  Russia,  he  would  have  been 
incapable  of  making  such  excellent  use  of  it  for  his  own 
purposes.  He  ought  to  be  infinitely  obliged  to  the  fel- 
low with  the  red  nose  for  his  patience  and  ingenuity. 
"A  wonderful  psychologist  apparently,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, sarcastically.  Remorse,  indeed!  It  was  a  striking 
example  of  your  true  conspirator's  blindness,  of  the 
stupid  subtlety  of  people  with  one  idea.  This  was  a 
drama  of  love,  «iiot  of  conscience,  Razumov  continued  to 
himself,  mockingly.  A  woman  the  old  fellow  was  mak- 
ing up  to!  A  robust  peddler,  clearly  a  rival,  throwing 
him  down  a  flight  of  stairs.  .  .  .  And  at  sixty,  for  a  life- 
long lover,  it  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  get  over.  That 
was  a  feminist  of  a  different  stamp  from  Peter  Ivano- 
vitch.  Even  the  comfort  of  the  bottle  might  con- 
ceivably fail  him  in  this  supreme  crisis.  At  such  an  age 
nothing  but  a  halter  could  cure  the  pangs  of  an  un- 
quenchable passion.  And,  besides,  there  was  the  wild 
exasperation  aroused  by  the  unjust  aspersions  and  the 
contumely  of  the  house,  with  the  maddening  impossi- 
bility to  account  for  that  mysterious  thrashing  added  to 
these  simple  and  bitter  sorrows.  "Devil.  Eh?"  Raz- 
umov exclaimed,  with  mental  excitement,  as  if  he  had 
made  an  interesting  discovery.  "Ziemianitch  ended  by 
falling  into  mysticism.  So  many  of  our  true  Russian 
souls  end  in  that  way!  Very  characteristic."  He  felt 
pity  for  Ziemianitch,  a  large,  neutral  pity,  such  as  one 
19  279 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

may  feel  for  an  unconscious  multitude,  a  great  people 
seen  from  above  like  a  community  of  crawling  ants  work- 
ing out  its  destiny.  It  was  as  if  this  Ziemianitch  could 
not  possibly  have  done  anjrthing  else.  And  Sophia  An- 
tonovna's  cocksure  and  contemptuous  ''some  police 
hound"  was  characteristically  Russian  in  another  way. 
But  there  was  no  tragedy  there.  This  was  a  comedy  of 
errors.  It  was  as  if  the  devil  himself  were  playing  a 
game  with  all  of  them  in  turn.  First  with  him,  then 
with  Ziemianitch,  then  with  those  revolutionists.  The 
devil's  own  game  this.  .  .  .  He  interrupted  his  earnest 
mental  soliloquy  with  a  jocular  thought  at  his  own  ex- 
pense.    "Hello!    I  am  falling  into  mysticism,  too." 

His  mind  was  more  at  ease  than  ever.  Turning  about, 
he  put  his  back  against  the  rail  comfortably.  "All  this 
fits  with  marvelous  aptness,"  he  continued  to  think. 
"The  brilliance  of  my  reputed  exploit  is  no  longer  dark- 
ened by  the  fate  of  my  supposed  colleague.  The  mystic 
Ziemianitch  accounts  for  that.  An  incredible  chance 
has  served  me.  No  more  need  of  lies.  I  shall  have  only 
to  listen  and  to  keep  my  scorn  from  getting  the  upper 
hand  of  my  caution." 

He  sighed,  folded  his  arms,  his  chin  dropped  on  his 
breast,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  started  forward 
from  that  pose,  with  the  recollection  that  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  do  something  important  that  day.  What 
it  was  he  could  not  immediately  recall,  yet  he  made  no 
effort  of  memory,  for  he  was  uneasily  certain  that  he 
would  remember  presently. 

He  had  not  gone  more  than  a  hundred  yards  toward 
the  town  when  he  slowed  down,  almost  faltered  in  his 
walk,  at  the  sight  of  a  figure  walking  in  the  contrary 
direction,  draped  in  a  cloak  under  a  soft,  broad-brimmed 
hat,  picturesque  but  diminutive,  as  if  seen  through  the 
big  end  of  an  opera-glass.  It  was  impossible  to  avoid 
that  tiny  man,  for  there  was  no  issue  for  retreat. 

"Another  one  going  to  that  mysterious  meeting," 

280 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

thought  Razumov.  He  was  right  in  his  surmise — only 
this  one,  unHke  the  others  who  came  from  a  distance, 
was  known  to  him  personally.  Still  he  hoped  to  pass 
on  with  a  mere  bow,  but  it  was  impossible  to  ignore  the 
little,  thin  hand,  with  hairy  wrist  and  knuckles,  protruded 
in  a  friendly  way  from  under  the  folds  of  the  cloak  worn 
Spanish-wise,  in  disregard  of  a  fairly  warm  day,  a  corner 
flung  over  the  shoulder. 

**  And  how  is  Herr  Razumov  ?"  sounded  the  greeting  in 
German,  by  that  alone  made  more  odious  to  the  object 
of  the  affable  recognition.  At  closer  quarters  the 
diminutive  personage  looked  like  a  reduction  of  an 
ordinary-sized  man,  with  a  lofty  brow  bared  for  a  mo- 
ment by  the  raising  of  the  hat,  the  great  pepper-and-salt 
full  beard  spread  over  the  proportionally  broad  chest. 
A  fine  bold  nose  jutted  over  a  thin  mouth  hidden  in  the 
mass  of  fine  hair.  All  this — accented  features,  strong 
limbs  in  their  relative  smallness  —  appeared  delicate 
without  the  slightest  sign  of  debility.  The  eyes  alone, 
almond-shaped  and  brown,  were  too  big  and  as  if 
misty,  with  the  whites  slightly  bloodshot  by  much  pen 
labor  under  a  lamp.  The  obscure  celebrity  of  the  tiny 
man  was  well  known  to  Razumov.  Polyglot,  of  un- 
known parentage,  of  indefinite  nationality,  anarchist 
with  a  pedantic  and  ferocious  temperament  and  an 
amazingly  inflammatory  capacity  for  invective,  he  was  a 
power  in  the  background,  this  violent  pamphleteer, 
clamoring  for  revolutionary  justice,  this  Julius  Laspara, 
editor  of  the  Living  Word,  confidant  of  conspirators,  in- 
dited of  sanguinary  menaces  and  manifestoes,  suspected 
of  being  in  the  secret  of  every  plot.  Laspara  lived 
in  the  old  town  in  a  somber,  narrow  house  left  him  by 
a  naive  middle-class  admirer  of  his  humanitarian  elo- 
quence. With  him  lived  his  two  daughters,  who  over- 
topped him  head  and  shoulders;  and  a  pasty-faced, 
lean  boy  of  six,  languishing  in  the  dark  rooms  in  bluer 
cotton    overalls   and    clumsy   boots,   might    have    be- 

281 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

longed  to  either  one  of  them  or  to  neither.  No  stranger 
could  tell.  Julius  Laspara,  no  doubt,  knew  which  of 
his  girls  it  was  who,  after  casually  vanishing  for  a 
few  years,  had  as  casually  returned  to  him  possessed 
of  that  child;  but  with  admirable  pedantry  he  had 
refrained  from  asking  her  for  details — no,  not  so  much 
as  the  name  of  the  father — ^because  maternity  should 
be  an  anarchist  function.  Razumov  had  been  ad- 
mitted twice  to  that  suite  of  several  small,  dark  rooms 
on  the  top  floor,  dusty  window-panes,  litter  of  all  sorts 
of  sweepings  all  over  the  place,  half-full  glasses  of  tea 
forgotten  on  every  table,  the  two  Laspara  daughters 
prowling  about  enigmatically  silent,  misty-eyed  like  the 
father,  corsetless  and  generally  in  their  want  of  shape 
and  the  disorder  of  their  rumpled  attire  resembling  old 
dolls,  the  great  but  obscure  Julius,  his  feet  twisted  round 
his  three-legged  stool,  always  ready  to  perceive  the 
visitors,  the  pen  instantly  dropped,  the  body  screwed 
round  with  a  striking  display  of  the  lofty  brow  and  of 
the  great,  austere  beard.  When  he  got  down  from  his 
stool  it  was  as  though  he  had  descended  from  the  heights 
of  Olympus.  He  was  dwarfed  by  his  daughters,  by  the 
furniture,  by  any  caller  of  ordinary  stature.  But  he 
very  seldom  left  it,  and  still  more  rarely  was  seen  walking 
in  broad  daylight. 

It  must  have  been  some  matter  of  serious  importance 
which  had  driven  him  out  in  that  direction  that  after- 
noon. Evidently  he  wished  to  be  amiable  to  that  young 
man  whose  arrival  had  made  some  sensation  in  the 
world  of  political  refugees.  In  Russian  now,  which  he 
spoke  as  he  spoke  and  wrote  in  four  or  five  other  Eu- 
ropean languages,  without  distinction  and  without  force 
(other  than  that  of  invective),  he  inquired  if  Razumov 
had  taken  his  inscriptions  at  the  University  as  yet.  And 
the  young  man,  shaking  his  head  negatively:  "There's 
plenty  of  time  for  that.  But  meantime  are  you  not  go- 
ing to  write  sornething  for  us?" 

383 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

He  could  not  understand  how  any  one  could  refrain 
from  writing  on  anything — social,  economic,  historical — 
anything.  Any  subject  could  be  treated  in  the  right 
spirit  and  for  the  ends  of  social  revolution.  And,  as  it 
happened,  a  friend  of  his  in  London  had  got  in  touch 
with  a  Review  of  advanced  ideas.  **We  must  educate, 
educate  everybody — develop  the  great  thought  of  abso- 
lute liberty  and  of  revolutionary  justice." 

Razumov  muttered,  rather  surlily,  that  he  did  not 
even  know  English. 

"Write  in  Russian.  We'll  have  it  translated.  There 
can  be  no  difficulty.  Why,  without  seeking  further, 
there  is  Miss  Hal  din.  My  daughters  go  to  see  her  some- 
times. You  know  the  sister."  He  nodded  significantly. 
"She  does  nothing — has  never  done  anything  in  her  life. 
She  would  be  quite  competent  with  a  little  assistance. 
Only  write.  You  know  you  must.  And  so  good-by  for 
the  present." 

He  raised  his  arm  and  went  on.  Razumov  backed 
against  the  low  wall,  looked  after  him,  spat  violently, 
and  went  on  his  way  with  an  angry  mutter. 

"Cursed  Jew." 

He  did  not  know  anything  about  it.  Julius  Laspara 
might  have  been  a  Transylvanian,  a  Turk,  an  Andalu- 
sian,  or  a  citizen  of  one  of  the  Hanse  towns,  for  anything 
he  could  tell  to  the  contrary.  But  this  is  not  a  story  of 
the  West,  and  this  exclamation  must  be  recorded  ac- 
companied by  the  comment  that  it  was  merely  an  ex- 
pression of  hate  and  contempt,  best  adapted,  to  the 
nature  of  the  feelings  Razumov  suffered  from  at  the 
time.  He  was  boiling  with  rage  as  though  he  had  been 
grossly  insulted.  He  walked  as  if  blind,  following  in- 
stinctively the  shore  of  the  diminutive  harbor  along  the 
quay,  through  a  prettily  dull  garden  where  dull  people 
sat  on  chairs  under  the  trees,  till,  his  fury  abandoning 
him,  he  discovered  himself  in  the  middle  of  a  long, 
broad  bridge.     He  slowed  down  at  once;    to  his  right, 

283 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

beyond  the  toy-like  jetties,  he  saw  the  green  slopes 
framing  the  Petit  Lac  in  all  the  marvelous  banality  of  the 
picturesque  made  of  painted  cardboard  with  the  more 
distant  stretch  of  water  inanimate  and  shining  like  a 
piece  of  tin. 

He  turned  his  head  away  from  that  view  for  the 
tourists  and  walked  on  slowly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground.  One  or  two  persons  had  to  get  out  of  his  way 
and  then  turned  round  to  give  a  surprised  stare  to  his 
profound  absorption.  The  insistence  of  the  celebrated 
subversive  journalist  rankled  in  his  mind  strangely. 
Write.  Must  write!  He!  Write!  A  sudden  light 
flashed  upon  him.  To  write  was  the  very  thing  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  do  that  day.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  irrevocably  to  that  step  and  then  had  forgotten  all 
about  it.  That  incorrigible  tendency  to  escape  from  the 
grip  of  the  situation  was  fraught  with  serious  danger. 
He  was  ready  to  despise  himself  for  it.  What  was  it? 
Levity  or  deep  -  seated  weakness  ?  Or  an  unconscious 
dread  ? 

"Is  it  that  I  am  shrinking?  It  can't  be!  It's  im- 
possible. To  shrink  now  would  be  worse  than  moral 
suicide — it  would  be  nothing  less  than  moral  damna- 
tion," he  thought.  "Is  it  possible  that  I  have  a  con- 
ventional conscience?" 

He  rejected  that  hypothesis  with  scorn  and,  checked 
on  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  made  ready  to  cross  the 
road  and  proceed  up  the  wide  street  facing  the  head  of 
the  bridge;  and  that  for  no  other  reason  except  that  it 
was  there  before  him.  But  at  the  moment  a  couple  of 
carriages  and  a  slow  moving  cart  interposed,  and  sud- 
denly he  turned  sharp  to  the  left,  following  the  quay 
again,  but  now  away  from  the  lake. 

"  It  may  be  just  my  health,"  he  thought,  allowing  him- 
self a  very  unusual  doubt  of  his  soundness ;  for,  with  the 
exception  of  a  childish  ailment  or  two,  he  had  never  been 
ill  in  his  life.     But  that  was  a  danger,  too.     Only  it 

284 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

seemed  as  though  he  were  being  looked  after  in  a  spe- 
cially remarkable  way.  "If  I  believed  in  an  active 
Providence,"  Razumov  said  to  himself,  amused  grimly, 
**  I  would  see  here  the  working  of  an  ironical  finger.  To 
have  a  Julius  Laspara  put  in  my  way  as  if  expressly  to 
remind  me  of  my  purpose  is  .  .  .  Write,  he  had  said. 
I  must  write.  I  must,  indeed!  I  shall  write — never 
fear.  Certainly.  That's  why  I  am  here.  And  for  the 
future  I  shall  have  something  to  write  about." 

He  was  exciting  himself  by  this  mental  soliloquy.  But 
the  idea  of  writing  evoked  the  thought  of  a  place  to 
write  in,  of  shelter,  of  privacy,  and,  naturally,  of  his 
lodgings,  mingled  with  a  distaste  for  the  necessary 
exertion  of  getting  there,  with  a  mistrust  as  of  some 
hostile  influence  awaiting  him  within  those  odious  four 
walls. 

"Suppose  one  of  these  revolutionists,"  he  asked  him- 
self, "were  to  take  a  fancy  to  call  on  me  while  I  am 
writing."  The  mere  prospect  of  such  an  interruption 
made  him  shudder.  One  could  lock  one's  door — or  ask 
the  tobacconist  down-stairs  (some  sort  of  a  refugee  him- 
self) to  tell  inquirers  that  one  was  not  in.  Not  very 
good  precautions,  those.  The  manner  of  his  life,  he 
felt,  must  be  kept  clear  of  every  cause  for  suspicion 
or  even  occasion  for  wonder,  down  to  such  trifling  oc- 
currences as  a  delay  in  opening  a  locked  door.  "  I  wish 
I  were  in  the  middle  of  some  field  miles  away  from 
everywhere,"  he  thought. 

He  had  unconsciously  turned  to  the  left  once  more 
and  now  was  aware  of  being  on  a  bridge  again.  This 
one  was  much  narrower  than  the  other,  and,  instead  of 
being  straight,  made  a  sort  of  elbow  or  angle.  At  the 
point  of  that  angle  a  short  arm  joined  it  to  a  hexagonal 
islet  with  a  soil  of  gravel,  and  its  shores  faced  with  dressed 
stone,  a  perfection  of  puerile  neatness.  A  couple  of  tall 
poplars  and  a  few  other  trees  stood  grouped  on  the  clean, 
dark  gravel,  and  under  them  a  few  garden  benches  and  a 

285 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

bronze  effigy  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  seated  on  its 
pedestal. 

On  setting  his  foot  on  it  Razumov  became  aware  that, 
except  for  the  woman  in  charge  of  the  refreshment  chalet, 
there  was  no  one  on  the  island.  There  was  something  of 
naive,  odious,  and  inane  simplicity  about  that  unfre- 
quented tiny  crumb  of  earth  named  after  Jean  Jacques 
Rousseau.  Something  pretentious  and  shabby,  too. 
He  asked  for  a  glass  of  milk,  which  he  drank  standing  at 
one  draught  (nothing  but  tea  had  passed  his  lips  since 
the  morning) ,  and  was  going  away  with  a  weary,  lagging 
step  when  a  thought  stopped  him  short.  He  had  found 
precisely  what  he  needed.  If  solitude  could  ever  be 
secured  in  the  open  air  in  the  middle  of  a  town,  he  would 
have  it  there  on  this  absurd  island,  together  with  the 
faculty  of  watching  the  only  approach. 

He  went  back  heavily  to  a  garden  seat,  dropped  into 
it.  This  was  the  place  for  making  a  beginning  of  that 
writing  which  had  to  be  done.  The  materials  he  had  on 
him.  "I  shall  always  come  here,"  he  said  to  himself, 
and  afterward  sat  for  quite  a  long  time  motionless,  with- 
out thought  and  sight  and  hearing,  almost  without  life. 
He  sat  long  enough  for  the  declining  sun  to  dip  behind 
the  roofs  of  the  town  at  his  back  and  throw  the  shadow 
of  the  houses  on  the  lake  front  over  the  islet,  before  he 
pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  fountain-pen,  opened  a  small 
note-book  on  his  knee,  and  began  to  write  quickly,  raising 
his  eyes  now  and  then  at  the  connecting  arm  of  the 
bridge.  These  glances  were  needless,  the  people  crossing 
over  in  the  distance  seemed  unwilling  even  to  look  at  the 
islet  where  the  exiled  effigy  of  the  author  of  the  Social 
Contract  towered  above  the  bowed  head  of  Razumov  in 
the  somber  immobility  of  bronze.  After  finishing  his 
scribbling,  Razumov,  with  a  sort  of  feverish  haste,  put 
away  the  pen,  then  rammed  the  note-book  into  his 
pocket,  first  tearing  out  the  written  pages  with  an  almost 
convulsive  brusqueness.     But  the  folding  of  the  flimsy 

286 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

batch  on  his  knee  was  executed  with  thoughtful  nicety. 
That  done,  he  leaned  back  in  his  seat  and  remained 
motionless  with  the  papers  crushed  in  his  left  hand. 
The  twilight  had  deepened.  He  got  up  and  began  to 
pace  to  and  fro  slowly  under  the  trees. 

**  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  now  I  am  safe,"  he 
thought.  His  fine  ear  could  detect  the  faintly  accen- 
tuated murmurs  of  the  current  breaking  against  the 
point  of  the  island,  and  he  forgot  himself  in  listening  to 
them  with  interest.  But  even  to  his  acute  sense  of  hear- 
ing the  sound  was  too  elusive. 

"  Extraordinary  occupation  I  am  giving  myself  up  to," 
he  murmured.  And  it  occurred  to  him  that  this  was 
about  the  only  sound  he  could  listen  to  innocently  and 
for  his  own  pleasure,  as  it  were.  Yes,  the  sound  of 
water,  the  voice  of  the  wind — completely  foreign  to 
human  passions.  All  the  other  sounds  of  this  earth 
brought  contamination  to  the  solitude  of  a  soul. 

That  was  Mr.  Razumov's  feeling,  the  soul,  of  course, 
being  his  own,  and  the  word  being  used  not  in  the 
theological  sense,  but  standing,  as  far  as  I  can  under- 
stand it,  for  that  part  of  Mr.  Razumov  which  was  not 
his  body  and  more  specially  in  danger  from  the  fires  of 
this  earth.  It  is  well  known  that  the  way  of  salvation  is 
hard,  darkened  by  the  shades  of  error  and  made  lonely 
to  an  independent  traveler.  Even  they  who  travel  in 
guided  troops  and  organized  caravans  are  not  spared 
the  terrors  of  isolation.  And  it  must  be  admitted  that 
in  Mr.  Razumov's  case  the  bitterness  of  solitude  from 
which  he  suffered  was  not  an  altogether  morbid  phe- 
nomenon. 


PART    FOURTH 


THAT  I  should,  at  the  beginning  of  this  retrospect, 
mention  again  that  Mr.  Razumov's  youth  had  no 
one  in  the  world,  as  literally  no  one  as  it  can  be  honestly 
affirmed  of  any  human  being,  is  but  a  statement  of  fact 
from  a  man  who  believes  in  the  psychological  value  of 
facts.  There  is  also,  perhaps,  a  desire  of  punctilious  fair- 
ness. Unidentified  with  any  one  in  this  narrative  where 
the  aspects  of  honor  and  shame  are  remote  from  the 
ideas  of  the  western  world,  and  taking  my  stand  on  the 
ground  of  common  humanity,  it  is  for  that  very  reason 
that  I  feel  a  strange  reluctance  to  state  baldly  here  what 
every  reader  has  most  likely  already  discovered  him- 
self. Such  reluctance  may  appear  absurd  if  it  were  not 
for  the  thought  that  because  the  imperfection  of  language 
there  is  always  something  ungracious  (and  even  dis- 
graceful) in  the  exhibition  of  naked  truth.  But  the  time 
has  come  when  Councilor  of  State  Mikulin  can  no  longer 
be  ignored.  His  simple  question,  "Where  to?"  on  which 
we  left  Mr.  Razumov  in  St.  Petersburg,  throws  a  light  on 
the  general  meaning  of  this  individual  case. 

"Where  to?"  was  the  answer  in  the  form  of  a  gentle 
question  to  what  we  may  call  Mr.  Razumov's  declaration 
of  independence.  The  question  was  not  menacing  in 
the  least,  and,  indeed,  had  the  ring  of  innocent  inquiry. 
Had  it  been  taken  in  a  merely  topographical  sense,  the 
only  answer  to  it  would  have  appeared  sufficiently  ap- 
palling to  Mr.  Razumov.  Where  to?  Back  to  his 
rooms  where  the  revolution  had  sought  him  out  to  put 
to  a  sudden  test  his  dormant  instincts,  hjs  half-conscious 

291 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

thoughts  and  almost  wholly  unconscious  ambitions,  by 
the  touch  as  of  some  furious  and  dogmatic  religion  with 
its  call  to  frantic  sacrifices,  its  tender  resignations,  its 
dreams  and  hopes  uplifting  the  soul,  by  the  side  of  the 
most  somber  moods  of  despair.  And  Mr.  Razumov  had 
let  go  the  door-handle  and  had  come  back  to  the  middle 
of  the  room  asking  Councilor  Mikulin,  angrily,  "What 
do  you  mean  by  it  ?" 

As  far  as  I  can  tell,  Councilor  Mikulin  did  not  answer 
that  question.  He  drew  Mr.  Razumov  into  familiar 
conversation.  It  is  the  peculiarity  of  Russian  natures 
that,  however  strongly  engaged  in  the  drama  of  action, 
they  are  still  turning  their  ear  to  the  murmur  of  abstract 
ideas.  This  conversation  (and  others  later  on)  need  not 
be  recorded.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  it  brought  Mr. 
Razumov,  as  we  know  him,  to  the  test  of  another  faith. 
There  was  nothing  official  in  its  expression,  and  Mr. 
Razumov  was  led  to  defend  his  attitude  of  detachment. 
But  Councilor  Mikulin  would  have  none  of  his  arguments. 
"  For  a  man  like  you,"  were  his  last  weighty  words  in  the 
discussion,  "such  a  position  is  impossible.  Don't  forget 
that  I  have  seen  that  interesting  piece  of  paper.  I  un- 
derstand your  liberalism.  I  have  an  intellect  of  that 
kind  myself.  Reform  for  me  is  mainly  a  question  of 
method.  But  the  principle  of  revolt  is  a  physical  in- 
toxication, a  sort  of  hysteria  which  must  be  kept  away 
from  the  masses.  You  agree  to  this  without  reserve, 
don't  you?  Because,  you  see,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  ab- 
stention, reserve,  in  certain  situations,  come  very  near 
to  political  crime.  The  ancient  Greeks  understood  that 
very  well." 

Mr.  Razumov,  listening  with  a  faint  smile,  asked 
Councilor  Mikulin  point-blank  if  this  meant  he  was  going 
to  have  him  watched. 

The  high  official  took  no  offense  at  the  cynical  inquiry. 

"No,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,"  he  answered,  gravely.  "I 
don't  mean  to  have  you  watched.*! 

293 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Razumov,  suspecting  a  lie,  affected  the  greatest  liberty 
of  mind  during  the  short  remainder  of  that  interview. 
The  older  man  expressed  himself  throughout  in  familiar 
terms  and  with  a  sort  of  shrewd  simplicity.  Razumov 
concluded  that  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  that  mind  was  an 
impossible  feat.  A  great  disquiet  made  his  heart  beat 
quicker.  The  high  official,  issuing  from  behind  the  desk, 
was  actually  offering  to  shake  hands  with  him. 

'*Good-by,  Mr.  Razumov.  An  understanding  between 
intelligent  men  is  always  a  satisfactory  occurrence.  Is 
it  not  ?  And,  of  course,  these  rebel  gentlemen  have  not 
the  monopoly  of  intelligence." 

"I  presume  that  I  shall  not  be  wanted  any  more?" 
Razumov  brought  out  that  question  while  his  hand  was 
still  being  grasped.  Councilor  Mikulin  released  it 
slowly. 

"That,  Mr.  Razumov,"  he  said,  with  great  earnestness, 
"is  as  it  may  be.  God  alone  knows  the  future.  But 
you  may  rest  assured  that  I  never  thought  of  having 
you  watched.  You  are  a  young  man  of  great  inde- 
pendence. Yes.  You  are  going  away  free  as  air,  but 
you  shall  end  by  coming  back  to  us." 

"I!  I!"  Razumov  exclaimed  in  an  appalled  murmur 
of  protest.     "What  for?"  he  added,  feebly. 

"Yes!  You,  yourself,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,"  the  high 
police  functionary  insisted,  in  a  low,  severe  tone  of  con- 
viction. "You  shall  be  coming  back  to  us.  Some  of 
our  greatest  minds  had  to  do  that  in  the  end." 

"Our  greatest  minds?"  repeated  Razumov,  in  a  dazed 
voice. 

"Yes,  indeed!     Our  greatest  minds.  .  .  .  Good-by.'* 

Razumov,  shown  out  of  the  room,  walked  away  from 
the  door.  But  before  he  got  to  the  end  of  the  passage  he 
heard  heavy  footsteps  and  a  voice  calling  upon  him  to 
stop.  He  turned  his  head  and  was  startled  to  see  Coun- 
cilor Mikulin  pursuing  him  in  person.  The  high  func- 
tionary hurried  up,  very  simple,  slightly  out  of  breath. 

293 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"One  minute.  As  to  what  we  were  talking  about 
just  now,  it  shall  be  as  God  wills  it.  But  I  may  have 
occasion  to  require  you  again.  You  look  surprised, 
Kirylo  Sidorovitch.  Yes,  ...  to  clear  up  any  further 
point  that  may  turn  up." 

"But  I  don't  know  anything,"  stammered  out  Razu- 
mov.     "  I  couldn't  possibly  know  anything." 

"Who  can  tell?  Things  are  ordered  in  a  wonderful 
manner.  Who  can  tell  what  may  become  disclosed  to 
you  before  this  day  is  out  ?  You  have  been  already  the 
instrument  of  Providence.  You  smile,  Kirylo  Sidoro- 
vitch; you  are  an  esprit  fort.'"  (Razumov  was  not 
conscious  of  having  smiled.)  "  But  I  believe  firmly 
in  Providence.  Such  a  confession  on  the  lips  of  an 
old,  hardened  official  like  me  may  sound  to  you  funny. 
But  you  yourself  yet  some  day  shall  recognize.  ...  Or 
else  what  happened  to  you  cannot  be  accounted  for  at 
all.  Yes,  decidedly,  I  shall  have  occasion  to  see  you 
again,  but  not  here.  This  wouldn't  be  quite — h'm  .  .  . 
Some  convenient  place  shall  be  made  known  to  you. 
And  even  the  written  communications  between  us  in 
that  respect  or  in  any  other  had  better  pass  through 
the  intermediary  of  our — if  I  may  express  myself  so — 

mutual  friend,  Prince  K .     Now  I  beg  you,  Kirylo 

Sidorovitch — don't!  I  am  certain  he'll  consent.  You 
must  give  me  the  credit  of  being  aware  of  what  I 
am  saying.     You  have  no  better  friend  than   Prince 

K ,  and,  as  to  myself,  it  is  a  long  time  now  since  I've 

been  honored  by  his  .  .  ." 

He  glanced  down  his  beard. 

"  I  won't  detain  you  any  longer.  We  live  in  difficult 
times,  in  times  of  monstrous  chimeras  and  evil  dreams 
and  criminal  follies.  We  shall  certainly  meet  once 
more.  It  may  be  some  little  time,  though,  before  we  do. 
Till  then  may  Heaven  send  you  fruitful  reflections." 

Once  in  the  street,  Razumov  started  off  rapidly,  with- 
out caring  for  the  direction.     At  first  he  thought  of 

294 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

nothing;  but  in  a  little  while  the  consciousness  of  his 
position  presented  itself  to  him  as  something  so  ugly, 
dangerous,  and  absurd,  the  difficulty  of  ever  freeing 
himself  from  the  toils  of  that  complication  so  insoluble, 
that  the  idea  of  going  back  and,  as  he  termed  it  to  him- 
self, confessing  to  Councilor  Mikulin  flashed  through  his 
mind. 

Go  back !  What  for ?  Confess !  To  what ?  "I  have 
been  speaking  to  him  with  the  greatest  openness,"  he 
said  to  himself  with  perfect  truth.  **  What  else  could  I 
tell  him?  That  I  have  undertaken  to  carry  a  message 
to  that  brute  Ziemianitch?  Establish  a  false  com- 
plicity and  destroy  what  chance  of  safety  I  have  won 
for  nothing? — what  folly!" 

Yet  he  could  not  defend  himself  from  fancying  that 
Councilor  Mikulin  was,  perhaps,  the  only  man  in  the 
world  able  to  understand  his  conduct.  To  be  under- 
stood appeared  extremely  fascinating. 

On  the  way  home  he  had  to  stop  several  times ;  all  his 
strength  seemed  to  run  out  of  his  limbs,  and  in  the 
movement  of  the  busy  streets,  isolated  as  if  in  a  desert, 
he  remained  suddenly  motionless  for  a  minute  or  so 
before  he  could  proceed  on  his  way.  He  reached  his 
rooms  at  last. 

Then  came  an  illness,  something  in  the  nature  of  a 
low  fever  which  all  at  once  removed  him  to  a  great  dis- 
tance from  the  perplexing  actualities,  from  his  very 
room,  even.  He  never  lost  consciousness;  he  only 
seemed  to  himself  to  be  existing  languidly  somewhere 
very  far  away  from  ever3rthing  that  had  ever  happened 
to  him.  He  came  out  of  this  state  slowly,  with  an 
effect,  that  is  to  say,  of  extreme  slowness,  though  the 
actual  number  of  days  was  not  very  great.  And  when 
he  had  got  back  into  the  middle  of  things,  they  were  all 
changed,  subtly  and  provokingly  in  their  nature — inani- 
mate objects,  human  faces,  the  landlady,  the  rustic 
servant  girl,  the  staircase,  the  streets,  the  very  air.  He 
20  295 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

tackled  these  changed  conditions  in  a  spirit  of  severity. 
He  walked  to  and  from  the  University,  ascended  stairs, 
paced  the  passages,  listened  to  lectures,  took  notes, 
crossed  courtyards  in  angry  aloofness,  his  teeth  set  hard 
till  his  jaws  ached. 

He  was  perfectly  aware  of  mad-cap  Kostia  gazing  like 
a  young  retriever  from  a  distance,  of  the  famished 
student  with  the  red,  drooping  nose  keeping  scrupu- 
lously away  as  desired,  of  twenty  others,  perhaps,  he 
knew  well  enough  to  speak  to.  And  they  all  had  an  air 
of  curiosity  and  concern  as  if  they  expected  something  to 
happen.  "This  can't  last  much  longer,"  thought  Razu- 
mov  more  than  once.  On  certain  days  he  was  afraid 
that  any  one  addressing  him  suddenly  in  a  certain  way 
would  make  him  scream  out  insanely  in  a  lot  of  filthy 
abuse.  Often,  after  returning  home,  he  would  drop  into 
a  chair  in  his  cap  and  cloak  and  remain  still  for  hours 
holding  some  book  he  had  got  from  the  library  in  his 
hand,  or  he  would  pick  up  the  little  penknife  and  sit 
there  scraping  his  nails  endlessly  and  feeling  furious  all 
the  time — simply  furious.  "This  is  impossible,"  he 
would  mutter  suddenly  to  the  empty  room. 

Fact  to  be  noted:  this  room  might  conceivably  have 
become  physically  repugnant  to  him,  emotionally  in- 
tolerable, morally  uninhabitable.  But  no.  Nothing  of 
the  sort  (and  he  had  himself  dreaded  it  at  first) ,  nothing 
of  the  sort  happened.  On  the  contrary,  he  liked  his 
lodgings  better  than  any  other  shelter  he,  who  had  never 
known  a  home,  had  ever  hired  before.  He  liked  his 
lodgings  so  well  that  often,  on  that  very  account,  he 
found  a  certain  difficulty  in  making  up  his  mind  to  go 
out.  It  resembled  a  physical  seduction  such  as,  for  in- 
stance, makes  a  man  reluctant  to  leave  the  neighborhood 
of  a  fire  on  a  cold  day. 

For  as  at  that  time  he  seldom  stirred  except  to  go  to 
the  University  (what  else  was  there  to  do  ?) ,  it  followed 
that  whenever  he  went  abroad  he  felt  himself  at  once 

296 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

closely  involved  in  the  moral  consequences  of  his  act. 
It  was  there  that  the  dark  prestige  of  the  Haldin  mystery 
fell  on  him,  clung  to  him  like  a  poisoned  robe  it  was 
impossible  to  fling  off.  He  suffered  from  it  exceed- 
ingly, as  well  as  from  the  conversational,  commonplace, 
unavoidable  intercourse  with  the  other  kind  of  students. 
"They  must  be  wondering  at  the  change  in  me,"  he  re- 
flected, anxiously.  He  had  an  uneasy  recollection  of  hav- 
ing savagely  told  one  or  two  innocent,  nice-enough  fellows 
to  go  to  the  devil.  Once  a  married  professor  he  used  to 
call  upon  formerly  addressed  him  in  passing:  "How  is 
it  we  never  see  you  at  our  Wednesdays  now,  Kirylo 
Sidorovitch  ?"  Razumov  was  conscious  of  meeting  this 
advance  with  odious,  muttering  boorishness.  The  pro- 
fessor was  obviously  too  astonished  to  be  offended.  All 
this  was  bad.  And  all  this  was  Haldin,  always  Haldin — 
nothing  but  Haldin — everywhere  Haldin:  a  moral  specter 
infinitely  more  effective  than  any  visible  apparition  of  the 
dead.  It  was  only  the  room  through  which  that  man  had 
blundered  on  his  way  from  crime  to  death  that  his  specter 
did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  haunt.  Not,  to  be  exact,  that 
he  was  ever  completely  absent  from  it,  but  that  there  he 
had  no  sort  of  power.  There  it  was  Mr.  Razumov  who  had 
the  upper  hand,  in  a  composed  sense,  of  his  own  superior- 
ity. A  vanquished  phantom — nothing  more.  Often  in 
the  evening,  his  repaired  watch  faintly  ticking  on  the 
table  by  the  side  of  the  lighted  lamp,  Razumov  would 
look  up  from  his  writing  and  stare  at  the  bed  with  an 
expectant,  dispassionate  attention.  Nothing  was  ever 
to  be  seen  there.  He  never  really  supposed  that  any- 
thing ever  should  be  seen  there.  After  a  while  he  would 
shrug  his  shoulders  slightly  and  bend  again  over  his 
work.  For  he  had  gone  to  work,  and,  at  first,  with  some 
success.  His  unwillingness  to  leave  that  place  where 
he  was  safe  from  Haldin  grew  so  strong  that  at  last  he 
ceased  to  go  out  at  all.  From  early  morning  till  far 
into  the  night  he  wrote,  he  wrote  for  nearly  a  week; 

297 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

never  looking  at  the  time,  and  only  throwing  himself  on 
the  bed  when  he  could  keep  his  eyes  open  no  longer. 
Then,  one  afternoon,  quite  casually,  he  happened  to 
glance  at  his  watch.     He  laid  down  his  pen  slowly. 

"At  this  very  hour,"  was  his  thought,  **the  fellow 
stole  unseen  into  this  room  while  I  was  out.  And 
there  he  sat  quiet  as  a  mouse — perhaps  in  this  very 
chair." 

Razumov  got  up  and  began  to  pace  the  floor  steadily, 
glancing  at  the  watch  now  and  then.  "This  is  the  time 
when  I  returned  and  found  him  standing  against  the 
stove,"  he  observed  to  himself.  When  it  grew  dark 
he  lit  his  lamp.  Later  on  he  interrupted  his  tramping 
once  more  only  to  wave  away  angrily  the  girl  who  at- 
tempted to  enter  the  room  with  tea  and  something  to 
eat  on  a  tray.  And  presently  he  noted  the  watch  point- 
ing at  the  hour  of  his  own  going  forth  into  the  falling 
snow  on  that  terrible  errand. 

"Complicity,"  he  muttered,  faintly,  and  resumed  his 
pacing,  keeping  his  eye  on  the  hands  as  they  crept  on 
slowly  to  the  time  of  his  return. 

"And  after  all,"  he  thought,  suddenly,  "I  might  have 
been  the  chosen  instrument  of  Providence.  This  is  a 
manner  of  speaking;  but  there  may  be  truth  in  every 
manner  of  speaking.  What  if  that  absurd  saying  were 
true  in  its  essence?" 

He  meditated  for  a  while,  then  sat  down,  his  legs 
stretched  out,  with  stony  eyes  and  with  his  arms  hang- 
ing down  on  each  side  of  the  chair,  like  a  man  totally 
abandoned  by  Providence — desolate. 

He  noted  the  time  of  Haldin's  departure,  and  con- 
tinued to  sit  still  for  another  half-hour;  then,  muttering 
"And  now  to  work,'^  drew  up  to  the  table,  seized  the 
pen,  and  instantly  dropped  it  under  the  influence  of  a 
profoundly  disquieting  reflection.  "  There's  three  weeks 
gone  by  and  no  word  from  Mikulin." 

What  did  it  mean?    Was  he  forgotten?     Possibly, 

298 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Then  why  not  remain  forgotten — creep  in  somewhere. 
Hide.  But  where?  How?  With  whom?  In  what 
hole  ?     And  was  it  to  be  forever,  or  what  ? 

But  a  retreat  was  big  with  shadowy  dangers.  The 
eye  of  the  Social  Revolution  was  on  him,  and  Razumov 
for  a  moment  felt  an  unnamed  and  despairing  dread 
mingled  with  an  odious  sense  of  humiliation.  Was  it 
possible  that  he  no  longer  belonged  to  himself?  This 
was  damnable.  But  why  not  simply  keep  on  as  before? 
Study.  Advance.  Work  hard  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened (and  first  of  all  win  the  silver  medal),  acquire 
distinction,  become  a  great  reforming  servant  of  the 
greatest  of  states.  Servant,  too,  of  the  mightiest  homo- 
geneous mass  of  mankind,  with  a  capability  for  logical, 
guided  development  in  a  brotherly  solidarity  of  force 
and  aim  such  as  the  world  had  never  dreamed  of.  .  .  . 
The  Russian  nation!  .  .  . 

Calm,  resolved,  steady  in  his  great  purpose,  he  was 
stretching  his  hand  toward  the  pen  when  he  happened  to 
glance  toward  the  bed.  He  rushed  at  it,  enraged,  with 
a  mental  scream:  **It's  you,  crazy  fanatic,  who  stands 
in  the  way!"  He  flung  the  pillow  on  the  floor  violent- 
ly, tore  the  blankets  aside.  .  .  .  Nothing  there.  And, 
turning  away,  he  caught  for  an  instant  in  the  air,  like  a 
vivid  detail  in  a  dissolving  view  of  two  heads,  the  eyes 

of  General  T and  of  Privy-Councilor  Mikulin,  side 

by  side,  fixed  upon  him,  quite  different  in  character,  but 
with  the  same  unflinching  and  weary  and  yet  purposeful 
expression.   .  .  .  Servants  of  the  nation ! 

Razumov  tottered  to  the  washstand  very  alarmed 
about  himself,  drank  some  water  and  bathed  his  fore- 
head. "This  will  pass  and  leave  no  trace,"  he  thought, 
confidently.  "I  am  all  right."  But  as  to  supposing 
that  he  had  been  forgotten,  it  was  perfect  nonsense.  He 
was  a  marked  man  on  that  side.  And  that  was  noth- 
ing. It  was  what  that  miserable  phantom  stood  for 
which  had  to  be  got  out  of  the  way.  .  .  .  "If  one  only 

299 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

could  go  and  spit  it  all  out  at  some  of  them — and  take 
the  consequences." 

He  imagined  himself  accosting  the  red-nosed  student 
and  suddenly  shaking  his  fist  in  his  face.  "From  that 
one,  though,"  he  reflected,  ''there's  nothing  to  be  got, 
because  he  has  no  mind  of  his  own.  He's  living  in  a 
red  democratic  trance.  Ah!  you  want  to  smash  your 
way  into  universal  happiness,  my  boy.  I  will  give  you 
universal  happiness,  you  silly,  hypnotized  ghoul,  you! 
And  what  about  my  own  happiness,  eh  ?  Haven't  I  got 
any  right  to  it  just  because  I  can  think  for  myself  ?  .  .  ." 

And  again,  but  with  a  different  mental  accent,  Razu- 
mov  said  to  himself :  "I  am  young.  Everything  can  be 
lived  down."  At  that  moment  he  was  crossing  the  room 
slowly,  intending  to  sit  down  on  the  sofa  and  try  to  com- 
pose his  thoughts.  But  before  he  had  got  so  far  every- 
thing abandoned  him — hope,  courage,  belief  in  himself, 
trust  in  men.  His  heart  had,  as  it  were,  suddenly  emp- 
tied itself.  It  was  no  use  struggling  on.  Rest,  work,  sol- 
itude, and  the  frankness  of  intercourse  with  his  kind  were 
alike  forbidden  to  him.  Everything  was  gone.  His 
existence  was  a  great,  cold  blank,  something  like  the 
enormous  plain  of  the  whole  of  Russia  leveled  with  snow 
and  fading  gradually  on  all  sides  into  shadows  and  mist. 

He  sat  down,  with  swimming  head,  closed  his  eyes, 
and  remained  like  that,  sitting  bolt  upright  on  the  sofa 
and  perfectly  awake  for  the  rest  of  the  night;  till  the 
girl,  bustling  into  the  outer  room  with  the  samovar, 
thumped  with  her  fist  on  the  door,  calling  out,  "Kirylo 
Sidorovitch,  please!     It  is  time  for  you  to  get  up!" 

Then,  pale  like  a  corpse  obeying  the  dread  summons  of 
judgment,  Razumov  opened  his  eyes  and  got  up. 

Nobody  will  be  surprised  to  hear,  I  suppose,  that  when 
the  summons  came  he  went  to  see  Councilor  Mikulin. 
It  came  that  very  morning  while,  looking  white  and 
shaky  like  an  invalid  just  out  of  bed,  he  was  trying  to 

300 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

shave  himself.  The  envelope  was  addressed  in  the  little 
attorney's  handwriting.  That  envelope  contained  an- 
other superscribed  to  Razumov  in  Prince  K 's  hand, 

with  the  request,  "Please  forward  under  cover  at  once," 
in  a  comer.  The  note  inside  was  an  autograph  of 
Councilor  Mikulin.  The  writer  stated  candidly  that 
nothing  had  arisen  which  needed  clearing  up,  but,  never- 
theless, appointed  a  meeting  with  Mr.  Razumov  at  a 
certain  address  in  town  which  seemed  to  be  that  of  an 
oculist. 

Razumov  read  it,  finished  shaving,  dressed,  looked  at 
the  note  again,  and  muttered,  gloomily,  **  Oculist."  He 
pondered  over  it  for  a  time,  lit  a  match,  and  burned 
the  two  envelopes  and  the  enclosure  carefully.  After- 
ward he  waited,  sitting  perfectly  idle  and  not  even  look- 
ing at  anything  in  particular  till  the  appointed  hour 
drew  near — and  then  went  out. 

Whether,  looking  at  the  unofficial  character  of  the 
summons,  he  might  have  refrained  from  attending  to  it, 
is  hard  to  say.  Probably  not.  At  any  rate,  he  went; 
but,  what's  more,  he  went  with  a  certain  eagerness  which 
may  appear  incredible  till  it  is  remembered  that  Councilor 
Mikulin  was  the  only  person  on  earth  with  whom  Razu- 
mov could  talk,  taking  the  Haldin  adventure  for  granted. 
And  Haldin,  when  once  taken  for  granted,  was  no  longer  a 
haunting,  falsehood-breeding  specter.  Whatever  troub- 
ling power  he  exercised  in  all  the  other  places  of  the 
earth,  Razumov  knew  very  well  that  at  this  oculist's 
address  he  would  be  merely  the  hanged  murderer  of  Mr. 

de  P ,  and  nothing  more.     For  the  dead  can  live  only 

with  the  exact  intensity  and  quality  of  the  life  imparted 
to  them  by  the  living.  So  Mr.  Razumov,  certain  of 
relief,  went  to  meet  Councilor  Mikulin  with  the  eagerness 
of  a  pursued  person  welcoming  any  sort  of  shelter. 

This  much  said,  there  is  no  need  to  tell  anything  more 
of  that  first  interview  and  of  the  several  others.  To  the 
morality  of  a  western  reader  an  account  of  these  meet- 

301 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

ings  would  wear,  perhaps,  the  sinister  character  of  old, 
legendary  tales  where  the  Enemy  of  Mankind  is  repre- 
sented holding  subtly  mendacious  dialogues  with  some 
tempted  soul.  It  is  not  my  part  to  protest.  Let  me 
but  remark  that  the  Evil  One,  with  his  single  passion  of 
Satanic  pride  for  the  only  motive,  is  yet,  on  a  larger, 
modern  view,  allowed  to  be  not  quite  so  black  as  he  used 
to  be  painted.  With  what  greater  latitude,  then,  should 
we  appraise  the  exact  shade  of  mere  mortal  man  with 
his  many  passions  and  his  miserable  ingenuity  in  error, 
always  dazzled  by  the  base  glitter  of  mixed  motives, 
everlastingly  betrayed  by  a  short-sighted  wisdom. 

Councilor  Mikulin  was  one  of  those  powerful  officials 
who,  in  a  position  not  obscure,  not  occult,  but  simple, 
inconspicuous,  exercise  a  great  influence  over  the 
methods  rather  than  over  the  conduct  of  affairs.  A  de- 
votion to  Church  and  Throne  is  not  in  itself  a  criminal 
sentiment;  to  prefer  the  will  of  one  to  the  will  of  many 
does  not  argue  the  possession  of  a  black  heart  or  prove 
congenital  idiocy.  Councilor  Mikulin  was  not  only  a 
clever,  but  also  subtle  official.  Privately  he  was  a 
bachelor  with  a  love  of  comfort,  living  alone  in  an  apart- 
ment of  five  rooms  luxuriously  furnished,  and  was 
known  by  his  intimates  to  be  an  enlightened  patron  of 
the  art  of  female  dancing.  Later  on,  the  larger  world 
first  heard  of  him  in  the  very  hour  of  his  downfall,  during 
one  of  those  State  trials  which  astonish  and  puzzle  the 
average  plain  man  who  reads  the  newspapers  by  a  glimpse 
of  unsuspected  intrigues.  And  in  the  stir  of  vaguely 
seen  monstrosities,  in  that  momentary,  mysterious  dis- 
turbance of  muddy  waters.  Councilor  Mikulin  went 
under,  dignified,  with  only  a  calm,  emphatic  protest  of 
his  innocence — nothing  more.  No  disclosure  damaging 
to  a  harassed  autocracy,  complete  fidelity  to  the  secret  of 
the  miserable  arcana  imperii,  deposited  in  his  patriotic 
breast  a  display  of  bureaucratic  stoicism  in  a  Russian 
official's  ineradicable,  almost  sublime  contempt  for  truth; 

302 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

stoicism  of  silence  understood  only  by  the  very  few  of 
the  initiated,  and  not  without  a  certain  cynical  grandeur 
of  self-sacrifice  on  the  part  of  a  Sybarite.  For  the  ter- 
ribly heavy  sentence  turned  Councilor  Mikulin  civilly 
into  a  corpse,  and  actually  into  something  very  much 
like  a  common  convict. 

It  seems  that  the  savage  autocracy,  any  more  than 
the  divine  democracy,  does  not  limit  its  diet  exclu- 
sively to  the  bodies  of  its  enemies.  It  devours  its 
friends  and  servants  as  well.  The  downfall  of  his  Ex- 
cellency, Gregory  Gregorievitch  Mikulin  (which  did  not 
occur  till  some  years  later),  completes  all  that  is  known 

of  the  man.     But  at  the  time  of  Mr.  de  P 's  murder 

(or  execution),  Councilor  Mikulin,  under  the  modest 
style  of  Head  of  Department  at  the  General  Secretariat, 
exercises  a  wide  influence  as  the  confidant  and  right- 
hand  man  of  his  former  school-fellow  and  lifelong  friend. 

General  T .     One  can  imagine  them  talking  over  the 

case  of  Mr.  Razumov  in  the  full  sense  of  their  unbounded 
power  over  all  the  lives  in  Russia,  with  cursory  disdain, 
like  two  Olympians  glancing  at  a  worm.  The  relation- 
ship with  Prince  K was  enough  to  save  Razumov 

from  some  carelessly  arbitrary  proceeding,  and  it  is  also 
very  probable  that  after  the  interview  at  the  Secretariat 
he  would  have  been  left  alone.  Councilor  Mikulin 
would  have  not  forgotten  him  (he  forgot  no  one  who  ever 
fell  under  his  observation),  but  would  have  simply 
dropped  him  forever.  Councilor  Mikulin  was  a  good- 
natured  man,  and  wished  no  harm  to  any  one,  besides 
(with  his  own  reforming  tendencies)  being  favorably  im- 
pressed by  that  young  student,  the  son  of  Prince  K , 

and  apparently  no  fool. 

But,  as  fate  would  have  it,  while  Mr.  Razumov  was 
finding  that  no  way  of  life  was  possible  to  him,  Councilor 
Mikulin's  discreet  abilities  were  rewarded  by  a  very  re- 
sponsible post — ^nothing  less  than  the  direction  of  the 
general  police  supervision  over  Europe.     And  it  was 

303 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

then,  and  then  only,  when  taking  in  hand  the  perfecting 
of  the  service  which  watches  the  revolutionist  activities 
abroad,  that  he  thought  again  of  Mr.  Razumov.  He  saw 
great  possibilities  of  special  usefulness  in  that  uncommon 
young  man,  on  whom  he  had  a  hold  already,  with  his 
peculiar  temperament,  his  unsettled  mind  and  shaken 
conscience,  and  struggling  in  the  toils  of  a  false  position. 
...  It  was  as  if  the  revolutionists  themselves  had  put 
in  his  hand  that  tool  so  much  finer  than  the  common 
base  instruments,  so  perfectly  fitted,  if  only  vested  with 
sufficient  credit,  to  penetrate  into  places  inaccessible  to 
common  informers.     Providential!     Providential!     And 

Prince  K ,  taken  into  the  secret,  was  ready  enough 

to  adopt  that  mystical  view,  too.  "It  will  be  neces- 
sary, though,  to  make  a  career  for  him  afterward,"  he 
had  stipulated,  anxiously.  **0h!  Absolutely.  We  shall 
make   that   our   affair,"   Mikulin   had   agreed.      Prince 

K 's  mysticism  was  of  an  artless  kind,  but  Councilor 

Mikulin  was  astute  enough  for  two. 

Things  and  men  have  always  a  certain  sense,  a  certain 
side  by  which  they  must  be  got  hold  of,  if  one  wants  to 
obtain  a  solid  grasp  and  a  perfect  command.  The  power 
of  Councilor  Mikulin  consisted  in  the  ability  to  seize 
upon  that  sense,  that  side,  in  the  men  he  used.  It  did 
not  matter  to  him  what  it  was — vanity,  despair,  love, 
hate,  greed,  intelligent  pride,  or  stupid  conceit — it  was 
all  one  to  him  as  long  as  the  man  could  be  made  to  serve. 
The  obscure,  unrelated  young  student,  Razumov,  in  the 
moment  of  great  moral  loneliness,  was  allowed  to  feel 
that  he  was  an  object  of  interest  to  a  small  group  of 

people  of  high  position.     Prince  K was  persuaded 

to  intervene  personally,  and  on  a  certain  occasion  gave 
way  to  a  manly  emotion  which,  all  unexpected  as  it  was, 
quite  upset  Mr.  Razumov.  The  sudden  embrace  of  that 
man,  agitated  by  his  loyalty  to  a  throne  and  by  sup- 
pressed paternal  affection,  was  a  revelation  to  Mr. 
Razumov  of  something  within  his  own  breast. 

304 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"So  that  was  it!"  he  exclaimed  to  himself.  A  sort  of 
contemptuous  tenderness  softened  the  young  man's 
grim  view  of  his  position  as  he  reflected  upon  that 
agitated  interview  with  Prince  K .  This  simple- 
minded,  worldly  ex-guardsman  and  senator,  whose  soft- 
gray,  official  whiskers  had  brushed  against  his  cheek,  his 
aristocratic  and  convinced  father,  was  he  a  whit  less 
estimable  or  more  absurd  than  that  famine-stricken, 
fanatical  revolutionist,  the  red-nosed  student? 

And  there  was  some  pressure,  too,  besides  the  persua- 
siveness. Mr.  Razumov  was  always  being  made  to  feel 
that  he  had  committed  himself.  There  was  no  getting 
away  from  that  feeling,  from  that  soft  unanswerable 
"Where  to?"  of  Councilor  Mikulin.  But  no  suscepti- 
bilities were  ever  hurt.  It  was  to  be  a  dangerous  mission 
to  Geneva,  for  obtaining,  at  a  critical  moment,  absolutely 
reliable  information  from  a  very  inaccessible  quarter  of 
the  inner  revolutionary  circle.  There  were  indications 
that  a  very  serious  plot  was  being  matured.  .  .  .  The 
repose  indispensable  to  a  great  country  was  at  stake.  .  .  . 
A  great  scheme  of  orderly  reforms  would  be  endangered. 
.  .  .  The  highest  personages  in  the  land  were  patriotically 
uneasy,  and  so  on.  In  short,  Councilor  Mikulin  knew 
what  to  say.  This  skill  is  to  be  inferred  clearly  from  the 
mental  and  psychological  self -confession,  self -analysis  of 
Mr.  Razumov's  written  journal — the  pitiful  resource  of  a 
young  man  who  had  near  him  no  trusted  intimacy,  no 
natural  affection  to  turn  to. 

How  all  this  preliminary  work  was  concealed  from 
observation  need  not  be  recorded.  The  expedient  of  the 
oculist  gives  a  sufficient  instance.  Councilor  Mikulin 
was  resourceful,  and  the  task  was  not  very  difficult. 
Any  fellow-student,  even  the  red -nosed  one,  was  per- 
fectly welcome  to  see  Mr.  Razumov  entering  a  private 
house  to  consult  an  oculist.  Ultimate  success  depended 
solely  on  the  revolutionary  self-delusion  which  credited 
Razumov  with  a  mysterious  complicity  in  the  Haldin 

305 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

affair.  To  be  compromised  in  it  was  credit  enough — 
and  it  was  their  own  doing.  It  was  precisely  that  which 
stamped  Mr.  Razumov  as  a  providential  man,  wide  as 
poles  apart  from  the  usual  type  of  agent  for  "European 
supervision." 

And  it  was  that  which  the  Secretariat  set  itself  the  task 
to  foster  by  a  course  of  calculated  and  false  indiscre- 
tions. 

It  came  at  last  to  this,  that  one  evening  Mr.  Razumov 
was  unexpectedly  called  upon  by  one  of  the  "thinking" 
students  whom  formerly,  before  the  Haldin  affair,  he 
used  to  meet  at  various  private  gatherings;  a  big  fellow 
with  a  quiet,  unassuming  manner  and  a  pleasant  voice. 

Recognizing  his  voice  raised  in  the  anteroom,  "May 
one  come  in" — Razumov,  lounging  idly  on  his  couch, 
jumped  up.  "Suppose  he  were  coming  to  stab  me?" 
he  thought,  sardonically,  and,  assuming  a  green  shade 
over  his  left  eye,  said,  in  a  severe  tone,  "Come  in." 

The  other  was  embarrassed;  hoped  he  was  not  in- 
truding. 

"You  haven't  been  seen  for  several  days,  and  Fve 
wondered."     He  coughed  a  little.     "Eye  better?" 

"Nearly  well  now." 

"Good.  I  won't  stop  a  minute;  but,  you  see,  I — ^that 
is,  we — ^anyway,  I  have  undertaken  the  duty  to  warn 
you,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  that  you  are  living  in  false 
security,  maybe." 

Razumov  sat  still  with  his  head  leaning  on  his  hand, 
which  nearly  concealed  the  unshaded  eye. 

"  I  have  that  idea,  too." 

"That's  all  right,  then.  Ever5rthing  seems  quiet  now, 
but  those  people  are  preparing  some  move  of  general 
repression.  That's  of  course.  But  it  isn't  that  I  came 
to  tell  you."  He  hitched  his  chair  closer,  dropped  his 
voice.     "You  shall  be  arrested  before  long — ^we  fear." 

An  obscure  scribe  in  the  Secretariat  had  overheard  a 
few  words  of  a  certain  conversation  and  had  caught  a 

306 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

glimpse  of  a  certain  report.  This  intelligence  was  not 
to  be  neglected. 

Razumov  laughed  a  little,  and  his  visitor  became  very 
anxious. 

"Ah!  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  this  is  no  laughing  matter. 
They  have  left  you  alone  for  a  while,  but  .  .  .  !  Indeed, 
you  had  better  try  to  leave  the  country,  Kirylo  Sidoro- 
vitch, while  there's  yet  time." 

Razumov  jumped  up  and  began  to  thank  him  for  the 
advice  with  mocking  effusiveness,  so  that  the  other, 
coloring  up,  took  himself  off,  with  the  notion  that  this 
mysterious  Razumov  was  not  a  person  to  be  warned  or 
advised  by  inferior  mortals. 

Councilor  Mikulin,  informed  the  next  day  of  the  in- 
cident, expressed  his  satisfaction :  **H'm.  Ha!  Exactly 
what  was  wanted  to  .  .  ."  and  glanced  down  his  beard. 

"I  conclude,"  said  Razumov,  "that  the  moment  has 
come  for  me  to  start  on  my  mission." 

"The  psychological  moment,"  Councilor  Mikulin  in- 
sisted, softly — very  grave — as  if  awed. 

All  the  arrangements  to  give  verisimilitude  to  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  difficult  escape  were  made.  Councilor 
Mikulin  did  not  expect  to  see  Mr.  Razumov  again  before 
his  departure.  These  meetings  were  a  risk,  and  there 
was  nothing  more  to  settle. 

"We  have  said  everything  to  each  other  by  now, 
Kirylo  Sidorovitch,"  said  the  high  official,  feelingly, 
pressing  Razumov's  hand  with  that  unreserved  hearti- 
ness a  Russian  can  convey  in  his  manner.  "There  is 
nothing  obscure  between  us.  And  I  will  tell  you  what! 
I  consider  myself  fortunate  in  having — h'm — your  ..." 

He  glanced  down  his  beard,  and,  after  a  moment  of 
grave  silence,  he  handed  to  Razumov  a  half-sheet  of  note- 
paper — an  abbreviated  note  of  matters  already  dis- 
cussed, certain  points  of  inquiry,  the  line  of  conduct 
agreed  on,  a  few  hints  as  to  personalities,  and  so  on.  It 
was  the  only  compromising  document  in  the  case,  but, 

307 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

as  Councilor  Mikulin  observed,  it  could  be  easily  de- 
stroyed. Mr.  Razumov  had  better  not  see  any  one  now 
— ^till  on  the  other  side  of  the  frontier,  when  of  course,  it 
will  be  just  that  .  .  .  see  and  hear  and  .  .  . 

He  glanced  down  his  beard,  but  when  Razumov  de- 
clared his  intention  to  see  one  person,  at  least,  before 
leaving  St.  Petersburg,  Councilor  Mikulin  failed  to  con- 
ceal a  sudden  uneasiness.  The  young  man's  studious, 
solitary,  and  austere  existence  was  well  known  to  him. 
It  was  the  greatest  guarantee  of  fitness.  He  became  de- 
precatory. Had  his  dear  Kirylo  Sidorovitch  considered 
whether,  in  view  of  such  a  momentous  enterprise,  it 
wasn't  really  advisable  to  sacrifice  every  sentiment  .  .  .  ? 

Razumov  interrupted  the  remonstrance  scornfully.  It 
was  not  a  young  woman ;  it  was  a  young  fool  he  wished 
to  see  for  a  certain  purpose.  Councilor  Mikulin  was  re- 
lieved but  surprised. 

"Ah!     And  what  for — precisely?" 

"For  the  sake  of  improving  the  aspect  of  verisimili- 
tude," said  Razumov,  curtly,  in  a  desire  to  affirm  his  in- 
dependence.    "I  must  be  trusted  in  what  I  do." 

Councilor   Mikulin   gave  way  tactfully,   murmuring: 

**  Oh,  certainly,  certainly.     Your  judgment  .  .  ." 

And  with  another  handshake  they  parted. 

The  fool  of  whom  Mr.  Razumov  had  thought  was  the 
rich  and  festive  student  known  as  "Madcap  Kostia." 
Feather-headed,  loquacious,  excitable,  one  could  make 
certain  of  his  utter  and  complete  indiscretion.  But  that 
riotous  youth,  when  reminded  by  Razumov  of  his  offers 
of  service  some  time  ago  passed  from  his  usual  elation 
into  boundless  dismay. 

"Oh,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  my  dearest  friend — ^my 
savior — what  shall  I  do?  I've  blown  last  night  every 
ruble  I  had  from  my  dad  the  other  day.  Can't  you 
give  me  till  Thursday?  I  shall  rush  round  to  all  the 
usurers  I  know.  ...  No!  Of  course  you  can't!  Don't 
look  at  me  like  that.     What  shall  I  do?     No  use  asking 

308 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

the  old  man.     I  tell  you  he's  given  me  a  fistful  of  big 
notes  three  days  ago.     Miserable  wretch  that  I  am!" 

He  wrung  his  hands  in  despair.  Impossible  to  con- 
fide in  the  old  man.  "They"  had  given  him  a  decora- 
tion, a  cross  on  the  neck  only  last  year,  and  he  had  been 
cursing  the  modern  tendencies  ever  since.  Just  then  he 
would  see  all  the  intellectuals  in  Russia  hanged  in  a  row 
rather  than  part  with  a  single  ruble. 

"Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  wait  a  moment.  Don't  despise 
me.  I  have  it.  I'll,  yes — I'll  do  it — I'll  break  into  his 
desk.  There's  no  help  for  it.  I  know  the  drawer  where 
he  keeps  his  plunder,  and  I  can  buy  a  chisel  on  my  way 
home.  He  will  be  terribly  upset,  but,  you  know,  the 
dear  old  duffer  really  loves  me.  He'll  have  to  get  over 
it — and  I,  too.  Kirylo,  my  dear  soul,  if  you  can  only 
wait  for  a  few  hours — till  this  evening — I  shall  steal  all 
the  blessed  lot  I  can  lay  my  hands  on !  You  doubt  me ! 
Why?     You've  only  to  say  the  word." 

"Steal  by  all  means,"  said  Razumov,  fixing  him, 
stonily. 

"To  the  devil  with  the  ten  commandments!"  cried 
the  other,  with  the  greatest  animation.  "It's  the  new 
future  now." 

But  when  he  entered  Razumov's  room,  late  in  the 
evening,  it  was  with  an  unaccustomed  soberness  of  man- 
ner, almost  solemnly. 

"It's  done,"  he  said. 

Razumov,  sitting  bowed,  his  clasped  hands  hanging 
between  his  knees,  shuddered  at  the  familiar  sound  of 
these  words.  Kostia  deposited  slowly  in  the  circle  of 
lamplight  a  small  brown-paper  parcel  tied  with  a  piece 
of  string. 

"As  I've  said — all  I  could  lay  my  hands  on.  The  old 
boy  '11  think  the  end  of  the  world  has  come." 

Razumov  nodded  from  the  couch  and  contemplated 
the  hare-brained  fellow's  gravity  with  a  feeling  of 
malicious  pleasure. 

309 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"I've  made  my  little  sacrifice,"  sighed  mad  Kostia. 
"And  I've  to  thank  you,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  for  the 
opportunity." 

"It  has  cost  you  something?" 

"  Yes,  it  has.  You  see,  the  dear  old  duffer  really  loves 
me.     He'll  be  hurt." 

"And  you  believe  all  they  tell  you  of  the  new  future 
and  the  sacred  will  of  the  people?" 

"Implicitly.  I  would  give  my  life  .  .  .  Only,  you 
see,  I  am  like  a  pig  at  the  trough.  I  am  no  good.  It's 
my  nature." 

Razumov,  lost  in  thought,  had  forgotten  his  existence, 
till  the  youth's  voice,  entreating  him  to  fly  without 
loss  of  time,  roused  him  unpleasantly. 

"All  right.     Well— good-by." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  leave  you  till  I've  seen  you  out  of 
Petersburg,"  declared  Kostia,  unexpectedly,  with  calm 
determination.  "You  can't  refuse  me  that  now.  For 
God's  sake,  Kirylo,  my  soul,  the  police  may  be  here  any 
moment,  and  when  they  get  you  they'll  immure  you 
somewhere  for  ages — ^till  your  hair  turns  gray.  I  have 
down  there  the  best  trotter  of  dad's  stables  and  a  light 
sledge.  We  shall  do  thirty  miles  before  the  moon  sets 
and  find  some  roadside  station.  ..." 

Razumov  looked  up  amazed.  The  journey  was  de- 
cided— unavoidable.  He  had  fixed  the  next  day  for  his 
departure — on  the  mission.  And  now  he  discovered 
suddenly  that  he  had  not  believed  in  it.  He  had 
gone  about  listening,  speaking,  thinking,  planning  his 
simulated  flight,  with  the  growing  conviction  that  all 
this  was  preposterous.  As  if  anybody  ever  did  such 
things !  It  was  like  a  game  of  make-believe.  And  now 
he  was  amazed !  Here  was  somebody  who  believed  in  it 
with  desperate  earnestness.  "If  I  don't  go  now,  at 
once,"  thought  Razumov,  with  a  start  of  fear,  "I  shall 
never  go."  He  rose  without  a  word,  and  the  anxious 
Kostia  thrust  his  cap  on  him,  helped  him  into  his  cloak — 

310 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

or  else  he  would  have  left  the  room  bareheaded,  as  he 
stood.  He  was  walking  out  silently  when  a  sharp  cry- 
arrested  him. 

"Kirylo!" 

"What?"  He  turned  reluctantly  in  the  doorway. 
Upright,  with  a  stiffly  extended  arm,  Kostia,  his  face  set 
and  white,  was  pointing  an  eloquent  forefinger  at  the 
brown  little  packet  lying  forgotten  in  the  circle  of  bright 
light  on  the  table.  Razumov  hesitated,  came  back  for 
it  under  the  severe  eyes  of  his  companion,  at  whom  he 
tried  to  smile.  But  the  boyish,  mad  youth  was  frown- 
ing. **It's  a  dream,"  thought  Razumov,  putting  the 
little  parcel  into  his  pocket  and  descending  the  stairs. 
"Nobody  does  such  things."  The  other  held  him  under 
the  arm,  whispering  of  dangers  ahead  and  of  what  he 
meant  to  do  in  certain  contingencies!  "Preposterous," 
murmured  Razumov,  as  he  was  being  tucked  up  in 
the  sledge.  He  gave  himself  up  to  watching  the  de- 
velopment of  the  dream  with  extreme  attention.  It 
continued  on  foreseen  lines,  inexorably  logical — ^the  long 
drive,  the  wait  at  the  small  station  sitting  by  a  stove. 
They  did  not  exchange  half  a  dozen  words  altogether. 
Kostia,  gloomy  himself,  did  not  care  to  break  the 
silence.  At  parting  they  embraced  twice  —  it  had 
to  be  done;  and  then  Kostia  vanished  out  of  the 
dream. 

When  dawn  broke  Razumov,  very  still  in  a  hot,  stuffy 
railway-car  full  of  bedding  and  of  sleeping  people  in  all 
its  dimly  liglited  length,  rose  quietly,  lowered  the  glass 
a  few  inches,  and  flung  out  on  the  great  plain  of  snow  a 
small  brown -paper  parcel.  Then  he  sat  down  again, 
muffled  up  and  motionless.  "For  the  people,"  he 
thought,  staring  out  of  the  window.  The  great  white 
desert  of  frozen,  hard  earth  glided  past  his  eyes  without 
a  sign  of  life. 

That  had  been  a  waking  act,  and  then  the  dream  had 
him  again — Prussia,  Saxony,  Wurttemberg,  faces,  sights, 
21  311 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

words — all  a  dream  observed  with  an  angry,  compelled 
attention.  Zurich,  Geneva — still  a  dream,  minutely 
followed,  wearing  one  into  harsh  laughter,  to  fury,  to 
death — with  the  fear  of  awakening  at  the  end.  .  .  . 


II 


PERHAPS  life  is  just  that,"  reflected  Razumov, 
pacing  to  and  fro  under  the  trees  of  the  little 
island  all  alone  with  the  bronze  statue  of  Rousseau.  "A 
dream  and  a  fear."  The  dusk  deepened.  The  pages 
written  over  and  torn  out  of  his  note-book  were  the  first 
fruit  of  his  "mission."  No  dream,  that.  They  con- 
tained the  assurance  that  he  was  on  the  eve  of  real  dis- 
coveries. **I  think  there  is  no  longer  anything  in  the 
way  of  my  being  completely  accepted." 

He  had  resumed  his  impressions  in  those  pages,  some 
of  the  conversations.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  write: 
"By-the-by,  I  have  discovered  the  personality  of  that 
terrible  N.  N.  A  horrible,  paunchy  brute.  If  I  hear  any- 
thing of  his  future  movements  I  shall  send  a  warning." 

The  futility  of  all  this  overcame  him  like  a  curse. 
Even^  then  he  could  not  believe  in  the  reality  of  his 
"mission."  He  looked  round  despairingly  as  if  for  some 
way  to  redeem  his  existence  from  that  unconquerable 
feeling.  He  crushed  angrily  in  his  hand  the  pages  of 
the  note-book.     "This  must  be  posted,"  he  thought. 

He  gained  the  bridge  and  returned  to  the  north  shore, 
where  he  remembered  having  seen  in  one  of  the  narrower 
streets  a  little,  obscure  shop  stocked  with  cheap  wood 
carvings,  its  walls  lined  with  extremely  dirty  cardboard- 
bound  volumes  of  a  small  circulating  library.  They  sold 
stationery  there,  too.  A  morose,  shabby  old  man  dozed 
behind  the  counter.  A  thin  woman  in  black,  with  a 
sickly  face,  produced  the  envelope  he  had  asked  for 
without  even  looking  at  him.     Razumov  thought  that 

313 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

these  people  were  safe  to  deal  with  because  they  no 
longer  cared  for  anything  in  the  world.  He  addressed 
the  envelope  on  the  counter  with  the  German  name  of  a 
certain  person  living  in  Vienna.  But  Razumov  knew 
that  this,  his  first  communication  for  Councilor  Mikulin 
would  find  its  way  to  the  Embassy  there,  be  copied  in 
cipher  by  somebody  trustworthy,  and  sent  on  to  its 
destination  all  safe  along  with  the  diplomatic  correspond- 
ence. That  was  the  arrangement  contrived  to  cover  up 
the  track  of  the  information  from  all  unfaithful  eyes, 
from  all  indiscretions,  from  all  mishaps  and  treacheries. 
It  was  to  make  him  safe — absolutely  safe. 

He  wandered  out  of  the  wretched  shop  and  made  for 
the  post-office.  It  was  then  that  I  saw  him  for  the 
second  time  that  day.  He  was  crossing  the  Rue  Mont- 
blanc  with  every  appearance  of  an  aimless  stroller. 
He  did  not  recognize  me,  but  I  made  him  out  at  some 
distance.  He  was  very  good-looking,  I  thought,  this  re- 
markable friend  of  Miss  Haldin's  brother.  I  watched 
him  go  up  to  the  letter-box  and  then  retrace  his  steps. 
Again  he  passed  me  very  close,  but  I  am  certain  he  did 
not  see  me  that  time,  either.  He  carried  his  head  well 
up,  but  he  had  the  expression  of  a  somnambulist  strug- 
gling with  the  very  dream  which  drives  him  forth  to 
wander  in  dangerous  places.  My  thought  reverted  to 
Nathalie  Haldin,  to  her  mother,  to  whom  he  seemed  to  be 
all  that  was  left  of  their  son  and  brother. 

The  westerner  in  me  was  discomposed.  There  was 
something  shocking  in  the  expression  of  that  face.  Had 
I  been  myself  a  conspirator,  a  Russian  political  refugee, 
I  could  have  perhaps  been  able  to  draw  some  practical 
conclusion  from  this  chance  glimpse.  As  it  was,  it  only 
discomposed  me  strongly,  even  to  the  extent  of  awaken- 
ing an  indefinite  apprehension  in  regard  to  Nathalie 
Haldin.  All  this  is  rather  inexplicable,  but  such  was 
the  origin  of  the  purpose  I  formed  there  and  then  to  call 
on  these  ladies  in  the  evening,  after  my  solitary  dinner. 

314 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

It  was  true  that  I  had  met  Miss  Haldin  only  a  few  hours 
before,  but  Mrs.  Haldin  herself  I  had  not  seen  for  some 
considerable  time.  The  truth  is,  I  had  shirked  calling  of 
late. 

Poor  Mrs.  Haldin!  I  confess  she  frightened  me  a 
little.  She  was  one  of  those  natures,  rare  enough,  luck- 
ily, in  which  one  cannot  help  being  interested,  be- 
cause they  provoke  both  terror  and  pity.  One  dreads 
their  contact  for  one's  self  and  still  more  for  those  one 
cares  for,  so  clear  it  is  that  they  are  born  to  suffer  and 
to  make  others  suffer,  too.  It  is  strange  to  think  that, 
I  won't  say  liberty,  but  the  mere  liberalism  of  outlook 
which  for  us  is  a  matter  of  words,  of  ambitions,  of  votes 
(and,  if  of  feeling  at  all,  then  of  the  sort  of  feeling  which 
leaves  our  deepest  affections  untouched),  may  be  for 
other  beings  very  much  like  ourselves,  and  living  under 
the  same  sky  a  heavy,  trial  of  fortitude,  a  matter  of  tears 
and  anguish  and  blood.  Mrs.  Haldin  had  felt  the  pangs 
of  her  own  generation.  There  was  that  enthusiast 
brother  of  hers — the  officer  they  shot  under  Nicholas. 
A  faintly  ironic  resignation  is  no  armor  for  a  vulnerable 
heart.  Mrs.  Haldin,  struck  at  through  her  children,  was 
bound  to  suffer  afresh  from  the  past  and  to  feel  the 
anguish  of  the  future.  She  was  of  those  who  do  not 
know  how  to  heal  themselves;  of  those  who  are  too 
much  aware  of  their  heart;  who,  neither  cowardly  nor 
selfish,  look  passionately  at  its  wounds — and  count  the 
cost. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  seasoned  my  modest,  lonely 
bachelor's  meal.  If  anybody  wishes  to  remark  that  this 
was  a  roundabout  way  of  thinking  of  Nathalie  Haldin,  I 
can  only  retort  that  she  was  well  worth  some  concern. 
She  had  all  her  life  before  her.  Let  it  be  admitted,  then, 
that  I  was  thinking  of  Nathalie  Haldin's  Hfe  in  terms  of 
her  mother's  character,  a  manner  of  thinking  of  a  girl 
permissible  for  an  old  man,  not  too  old  yet  to  have  be- 
come a  stranger  to  pity.     There  was  almost  all  her 

315 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

youth  before  her;  a  youth  robbed  arbitrarily  of  its 
natural  lightness  and  joy,  overshadowed  by  an  un- 
European  despotism;  a  terribly  somber  youth  given 
over  to  the  hazards  of  a  furious  strife  between  equally 
ferocious  antagonisms. 

I  lingered  over  my  thoughts  more  than  I  should  have 
done.  One  felt  so  helpless,  and  even  worse — so  unre- 
lated in  a  way.  At  the  last  moment  I  hesitated  as  to 
going  there  at  all.     What  was  the  good  ? 

All  this  made  me  late,  and  the  evening  was  already 
advanced  when,  turning  into  the  Boulevard  des  Philo- 
sophes,  I  saw  the  light  in  the  window  at  the  corner.  The 
blind  was  down,  but  I  could  imagine  behind  it  Mrs. 
Haldin  seated  in  the  chair,  in  her  usual  attitude,  as  if 
looking  out  for  some  one,  which  had  lately  acquired 
the  poignant  quality  of  a  mad  expectation. 

I  thought  that  I  was  sufficiently  authorized  by  the 
light  to  knock  at  the  door.  The  ladies  had  not  retired  as 
yet;  I  only  hoped  they  would  not  have  any  visitors  of 
their  own  nationality.  A  broken-down  retired  Russian 
official  was  to  be  found  there  sometimes  in  the  evening. 
He  was  infinitely  forlorn  and  wearisome  by  his  mere  dis- 
mal presence.  I  think  these  ladies  tolerated  his  frequent 
visits  because  of  an  ancient  friendship  with  Mr.  Haldin, 
the  father,  or  something  of  that  sort.  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  if  I.  found  him  prosing  away  there  in  his  feeble 
voice  I  should  remain  but  a  very  few  minutes. 

The  door  surprised  me  by  swinging  open  before  I  could 
ring  the  bell.  I  was  confronted  by  Miss  Haldin  in  hat 
and  jacket,  obviously  on  the  point  of  going  out.  At  that 
hour !     For  the  doctor,  perhaps  ? 

Her  exclamation  of  welcome  reassured  me.  It 
sounded  as  if  I  had  been  the  very  man  she  wanted  to  see. 
My  curiosity  was  awakened.  She  drew  me  in,  and  the 
faithful  Anna,  the  elderly  German  maid,  closed  the 
door,  but  did  not  go  away  afterward.  She  remained 
near  it  as  if  in  readiness  to  let  me  out  presently.     It  ap- 

316 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

peared  that  Miss  Haldin  had  been  on  the  point  of  going 

out  to  find  me. 

She  spoke  in  a  hurried  manner,  very  unusual  with  her. 
She  would  have  gone  straight  and  rung  at  Mrs.  Ziegler's 
door,  late  as  it  was,  for  Mrs.  Ziegler's  habits  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Ziegler,  the  widow  of  a  distinguished  professor 
who  was  an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  lets  me  have 
three  rooms  out  of  her  very  large  and  fine  apartment, 
which  she  didn't  give  up  after  her  husband's  death; 
but  I  have  my  own  entrance,  opening  on  the  same  land- 
ing. It  was  an  arrangement  of  at  least  ten  years'  stand- 
ing. I  said  that  I  was  very  glad  that  I  had  the  idea 
to  .  .  . 

Miss  Haldin  made  no  motion  to  take  off  her  outdoor 
things.  I  observed  her  heightened  color,  something 
pronouncedly  resolute  in  her  tone.  Did  I  know  where 
Mr.  Razumov  lived  ? 

Where  Mr.  Razumov  lived !  Mr.  Razumov !  At  this 
hour — so  urgently !  I  threw  my  arms  up  in  sign  of  utter 
ignorance.  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  where  he  lived. 
If  I  could  have  foreseen  her  question  only  three  hours 
ago  I  might  have  ventured  to  ask  him,  on  the  pavement 
before  the  new  post-office  building,  and,  possibly,  he 
would  have  told  me;  but  very  possibly,  too,  he  would 
have  dismissed  me  rudely  to  mind  my  own  business. 
And  possibly,  I  thought,  remembering  that  extraor- 
dinary hallucined,  anguished,  and  absent  expression,  he 
might  have  fallen  down  in  a  fit  from  the  shock  of  being 
spoken  to.  I  said  nothing  of  all  this  to  Miss  Haldin,  not 
even  mentioning  that  I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  young  man 
so  recently.  The  impression  had  been  so  extremely  un- 
pleasant that  I  would  have  been  glad  to  forget  it  my- 
self. 

"I  don't  see  where  I  could  make  inquiries,"  I  mur- 
mured, helplessly.  I  would  have  been  glad  to  be  of 
use  in  any  way  and  would  have  set  off  to  fetch  any  man, 
young  or  old,  for  I  had  the  greatest  confidence  in  her 

317 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

common  sense.  "What  made  you  think  of  coming  to 
me  for  that  information?"  I  asked. 

"It  wasn't  exactly  for  that,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
She  had  the  air  of  some  one  confronted  by  an  unpleasant 
task. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  must  communicate 
with  Mr.  Razumov  this  evening?" 

Nathalie  Haldin  moved  her  head  affirmatively,  then, 
after  a  glance  at  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  said, 
in  French: 

''C'est  maman,'*  and  remained  perplexed  for  a  mo- 
ment, always  serious,  not  a  girl  to  be  put  out  by  any 
imaginary  difficulties.  My  curiosity  was  suspended  on 
her  lips,  which  remained  closed  for  a  moment.  What 
was  Mr.  Razumov's  connection  with  this  mention  of  her 
mother?  Mrs.  Haldin  had  not  been  informed  of  her 
son's  friend's  arrival  in  Geneva. 

"May  I  hope  to  see  your  mother  this  evening?"  I 
inquired. 

Miss  Haldin  extended  her  hand  as  if  to  bar  the  way. 

"She  is  in  a  terrible  state  of  agitation.  Oh,  you 
would  not  be  able  to  detect  .  .  .  It's  inward,  but  I,  who 
know  mother,  I  am  appalled.  I  haven't  the  courage  to 
face  it  any  longer.  It's  all  my  fault;  I  suppose  I  cannot 
play  a  part;  I've  never  before  hidden  anything  from 
mother.  There  has  never  been  an  occasion  for  anything 
of  that  sort  between  us.  But  you  know,  yourself,  the 
reason  why  I  refrained  from  telling  her  at  once  of  Mr. 
Razumov's  arrival  here.  You  understand,  don't  you? 
Owing  to  her  unhappy  state.  And — ^there — !  I  am  no 
actress.  My  own  feelings  being  strongly  engaged,  I 
somehow  ...  I  don't  know.  She  noticed  something  in 
my  manner.  She  thought  I  was  concealing  something 
from  her.  She  noticed  my  longer  absences,  and,  in  fact, 
as  I  have  been  meeting  Mr.  Razumov  daily,  I  used  to 
stay  away  longer  than  usual  when  I  went  out.  Goodness 
knows  what  suspicions  arose  in  her  mind.     You  know 

318 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

that  she  has  not  been  herself  ever  since.  ...  So  this 
evening  she  — who  has  been  so  awfully  silent  for  weeks — 
began  to  talk  all  at  once.  She  said  that  she  did  not  want 
to  reproach  me;  that  I  had  my  character  as  she  had  her 
own;  that  she  did  not  want  to  pry  into  my  affairs  or 
even  into  my  thoughts;  for  her  part,  she  had  never  had 
anything  to  conceal  from  her  children  .  .  .  cruel  things 
to  listen  to.  And  all  this  in  her  quiet  voice,  with  that 
poor  wasted  face  as  calm  as  a  stone.     It  was  unbearable. 

Miss  Haldin  talked  in  an  undertone  and  more  rapidly 
than  I  had  ever  heard  her  speak  before.  That  in  itself 
was  disturbing.  The  anteroom  being  strongly  lighted,  I 
could  see  under  the  veil  the  heightened  color  of  her 
face.  She  stood  erect,  her  left  hand  was  resting  light- 
ly on  a  small  table.  The  other  hung  by  her  side 
without  stirring.  Now  and  then  she  caught  her  breath 
slightly. 

"  It  was  too  startling.  Just  fancy!  She  thought  that 
I  was  making  preparations  to  leave  her  without  saying 
anything.  I  knelt  by  the  side  of  her  chair  and  entreated 
her  to  think  of  what  she  was  saying !  She  put  her  hand 
on  my  head,  but  she  persisted  in  her  delusion  all  the 
same.  She  had  always  thought  that  she  was  worthy  of 
her  children's  confidence,  but  apparently  it  was  not  so. 
Her  son  could  not  trust  her  love  if  not  her  understanding 
— and  now  I  was  planning  to  abandon  her  in  the  same 
cruel  and  unjust  manner,  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  Noth- 
ing I  could  say  ...  It  is  morbid  obstinacy.  .  .  .  She 
said  that  she  felt  there  was  something,  some  change  in 
me.  ...  If  my  convictions  were  calling  me  away,  why 
this  secrecy,  as  though  she  had  been  a  coward  or  a 
weakling  not  safe  to  trust  ?  *  As  if  my  heart  could  play 
traitor  to  my  children,'  she  said.  ...  It  was  hardly  to 
be  borne.  And  she  was  smoothing  my  head  all  the 
time.  ...  It  was  perfectly  useless  to  protest.  She  is 
ill.     Her  very  soul  is  .  .  ." 

I  did  not  venture  to  break  the  silence  which  fell  be- 
319 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

tween  us.     I  looked  into  her  eyes,  glistening  through  the 
veil. 

"I!  Changed!"  she  exclaimed  in  the  same  low  tone. 
**My  convictions  calling  me  away!  It  was  cruel  to 
hear  this,  because  my  trouble  is  that  I  am  weak  and 
cannot  see  what  I  ought  to  do.  You  know  that.  And 
to  end  it  all  I  did  a  selfish  thing.  To  remove  her  sus- 
picions of  myself  I  told  her  of  Mr.  Razumov.  It  was  self- 
ish of  me.  You  know  we  were  completely  right  in  agree- 
ing to  keep  the  knowledge  away  from  her.  Perfectly 
right.  Directly  I  told  her  of  our  poor  Victor's  friend 
being  here,  I  saw  how  right  we  have  been.  She  ought  to 
have  been  prepared ;  but  in  my  distress  I  just  blurted  it 
out.  Mother  got  terribly  excited  at  once.  How  long 
has  he  been  here  ?  What  did  he  know,  and  why  did  he 
not  come  to  see  us  at  once,  this  friend  of  her  Victor? 
What  did  .that  mean  ?  Was  she  not  to  be  trusted  even 
with  such  memories  as  there  were  left  of  her  son?  .  .  . 
Just  think  how  I  felt  seeing  her  white  like  a  sheet,  per- 
fectly motionless,  with  her  thin  hands  gripping  the  arms 
of  the  chair.     I  told  her  it  was  all  my  fault." 

I  could  imagine  the  motionless,  dumb  figure  of  the 
mother  in  her  chair,  there,  behind  the  door  near  which  the 
daughter  was  talking  to  me.  The  silence  in  there 
seemed  to  call  aloud  for  vengeance  against  a  historical 
fact  and  the  modern  instances  of  its  working.  That 
view  flashed  through  my  mind,  but  I  could  not  doubt 
that  Miss  Haldin  had  had  an  atrocious  time  of  it.  I 
quite  understood  when  she  said  that  she  could  not  face 
the  night  upon  the  impression  of  that  scene.  Mrs. 
Haldin  had  given  way  to  most  awful  imaginings,  to  most 
fantastic  and  cruel  suspicions.  All  this  had  to  be  lulled 
at  all  costs  and  without  loss  of  time.  It  was  no  shock  to 
me  to  learn  that  Miss  Haldin  had  said  to  her  "I  will  go, 
and  bring  him  here  at  once."  There  was  nothing  absurd 
in  that  cry,  no  exaggeration  of  sentiment.  I  was  not 
even  doubtful  in  my  "Very  well,  but  how?" 

320 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

It  was  perfectly  right  that  she  should  think  of  me,  but 
what  could  I  do  in  my  ignorance  of  Mr.  Razumov's 
quarters  ? 

"And  to  think  he  may  be  living  near  by,  within  a 
stone's-throw  perhaps,"  she  exclaimed. 

I  doubted  it ;  but  I  would  have  gone  off  cheerfully  to 
fetch  him  from  the  other  end  of  Geneva.  I  supposed  she 
was  certain  of  my  readiness,  since  her  first  thought  was  to 
come  to  me.  But  the  service  she  meant  to  ask  of  me 
really  was  to  accompany  her  to  the  Chateau  Borel. 

I  had  an  unpleasant  mental  vision  of  the  dark  road, 
of  the  somber  grounds,  and  the  desolately  suspicious 
aspect  of  that  home  of  necromancy  and  intrigue  and 

feminist   adoration.     I  objected  that   Mme.   de    S 

most  likely  would  know  nothing  of  what  we  wanted 
to  find  out.  Neither  did  I  think  it  likely  that  the 
young  man  would  be  found  there.  I  remembered  my 
glimpse  of  his  face,  and  somehow  gained  the  conviction 
that  a  man  who  looked  worse  than  if  he  had  seen  the 
dead  would  want  to  shut  himself  up  somewhere  where 
he  could  be  alone.  I  felt  a  strange  certitude  that  Mr. 
Razumov  was  going  home  when  I  saw  him. 

"  It  is  really  of  Peter  Ivanovitch  that  I  was  thinking," 
said  Miss  Haldin,  quietly. 

Ah!  He,  of  course,  would  know.  I  looked  at  my 
watch.  It  was  twenty  minutes  past  nine  only.  .  .  . 
Still. 

"I  would  try  his  hotel  then,"  I  advised.  "He  has 
rooms  at  the  Cosmopolitan  somewhere  on  the  top  floor." 

I  did  not  offer  to  go  by  myself  simply  from  mistrust  of 
the  reception  I  should  meet  with.  But  I  suggested  the 
faithful  Anna,  with  a  note  asking  for  the  information. 

Anna  was  still  waiting  by  the  door  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  and  we  two  discussed  the  matter  in 
whispers.  Miss  Haldin  thought  she  most  go  herself. 
Anna  was  timid  and  slow.  Time  would  be  lost  in  bring- 
ing back  the  answer;  and  from  that  point  of  view  it  was 

321 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

getting  late,  for  it  was  by  no  means  certain  that  Mr. 
Razumov  lived  near  by. 

*'If  I  go  myself,"  Miss  Haldin  argued,  "I  can  go 
straight  to  him  from  the  hotel.  And,  in  any  case,  I 
should  have  to  go  out  because  I  must  explain  to  Mr. 
Razumov  personally — prepare  him,  in  a  way.  You 
have  no  idea  of  mother's  state  of  mind." 

Her  color  came  and  went.  She  even  thought  that 
both  for  her  mother's  sake  and  for  her  own  it  was  better 
that  they  should  not  be  together  for  a  little  time.  Anna, 
whom  her  mother  liked,  would  be  at  hand. 

"She  could  even  take  her  sewing  into  the  room. 
Mother  won't  mind,"  Miss  Haldin  continued  as  I  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  door.  Then,  addressing  in  German  the 
maid  who  opened  it  before  us:  *'You  may  tell  my 
mother  that  this  gentleman  called  and  is  gone  with  me 
to  find  Mr.  Razumov.  She  must  not  be  uneasy  if  I  am 
away  for  some  length  of  time." 

We  passed  out  quickly  at  the  big  house-door,  and  she 
took  deep  breaths  of  the  cool  night  air.  "  I  did  not  even 
ask  you,"  she  murmured. 

**I  should  think  not,"  I  said,  with  a  laugh.  The  man- 
ner of  my  reception  by  the  great  feminist  could  not  be 
considered  now.  That  he  would  be  annoyed  to  see  me, 
and  probably  treat  me  to  some  solemn  insolence,  I  had 
no  doubt,  but  I  supposed  that  he  would  not  absolutely 
dare  to  throw  me  out.  And  that  was  all  I  cared  for. 
"Won't  you  take  my  arm?"  I  asked. 

She  did  so  without  a  word,  and  neither  of  us  spoke  till 
I  let  her  go  first  into  the  great  hall  of  the  hotel.  It  was 
brilliantly  lighted  and  with  a  good  many  people  lounging 
about. 

"I  could  very  well  go  up  there  without  you,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"  I  don't  like  to  be  left  waiting  in  this  place,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice.     "I  will  come,  too." 

I  led  her  straight  to  the  lift  then.    At  the  top  floor  the 

322 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

attendant  directed  us  to  the  right:    ''End  of  the  cor- 
ridor." 

The  walls  were  white,  the  carpet  red,  electric  lights 
blazed  in  profusion,  and  the  emptiness,  the  silence,  the 
closed  doors,  all  alike  and  numbered,  made  me  think  of 
the  perfect  order  of  some  severely  luxurious  model  pen- 
itentiary on  the  solitary  -  confinement  principle.  Up 
there  under  the  roof  of  that  enormous  pile  for  housing 
travelers  no  sound  of  any  kind  reached  us,  the  thick 
crimson  felt  muffled  our  footsteps  completely.  We 
hastened  on,  not  looking  at  each  other  till  we  found  our- 
selves before  the  very  last  door  of  that  long  passage. 
Then  our  eyes  met  and  we  stood  thus  for  a  moment  lend- 
ing ear  to  a  faint  murmur  of  voices  inside. 

"I  suppose  this  is  it,"  I  whispered,  unnecessarily.  I 
saw  Miss  Haldin's  lips  move  soundlessly,  and  after  my 
sharp  knock  the  murmur  of  voices  inside  ceased.  A  pro- 
found stillness  lasted  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  the  door 
was  brusquely  opened  by  a  short,  black-eyed  woman  in  a 
red  blouse,  with  a  great  lot  of  nearly  white  hair  done  up 
negligently  in  an  untidy  and  picturesque  manner.  Her 
thin,  jetty  eyebrows  were  drawn  together.  I  learned 
afterward  with  interest  that  she  was  the  famous — or  the 
notorious — Sophia  Antonovna,  but  I  was  struck  then  by 
the  quaint  Mephistophelian  character  of  her  inquiring 
glance,  because  it  was  so  curiously  evilless,  so — I  may 
say — undevilish.  It  got  softened  still  more  as  she 
looked  up  at  Miss  Haldin,  who  stated  in  her  gentle, 
even  voice  her  wish  to  see  Peter  Ivanovitch  for  a 
moment. 

"I  am  Miss  Haldin,"  she  added. 

At  this,  with  her  brow  completely  smoothed  out  now, 
but  without  a  word  in  answer,  the  woman  in  the  red 
blouse  walked  away  to  a  sofa  and  sat  down,  leaving  the 
door  wide  open. 

And  from  the  sofa,  her  hands  lying  on  her  lap,  she 
watched  us  enter  with  her  black,  glittering  eyes. 

323 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Miss  Haldin  advanced  into  the  middle  of  the  room ;  I, 
faithful  to  my  part  of  mere  attendant,  remained  by  the 
door  after  closing  it  behind  me.  The  room,  quite  a 
large  one,  but  with  a  low  ceiling,  was  scantily  furnished, 
and  an  electric  bulb  with  a  porcelain  shade  pulled  low 
down  over  a  big  table  (with  a  very  large  map  spread  on 
it)  left  its  distant  parts  in  a  dim,  artificial  twilight. 
Peter  Ivanovitch  was  not  to  be  seen,  neither  was  Mr. 
Razumov  present.  But  on  the  sofa,  near  Sophia  Anto- 
novna,  a  bony-faced  man  with  a  goatee  beard  leaned 
forward  with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  staring  frankly  with 
faded,  kindly  eyes.  In  a  remote  corner  a  bulky  shape 
and  a  broad,  pale  face  could  be  made  out,  uncouth  and 
as  if  insecure  on  the  low  seat  on  which  it  rested.  The 
only  person  known  to  me  was  little  Julius  Laspara,  who 
seemed  to  have  been  poring  over  the  map  with  his  feet 
twined  tightly  round  the  chair -legs.  He  got  down 
briskly  and  bowed  to  Miss  Haldin,  looking  absurdly  like 
a  small,  hook-nosed  boy  with  a  beautiful  false  pepper- 
and-salt  beard.  He  advanced,  offering  his  seat,  which 
Miss  Haldin  declined.  She  had  only  come  in  for  a 
moment  to  say  a  few  words  to  Peter  Ivanovitch. 

His  high-pitched  voice  became  painfully  accented  in 
the  room. 

"Strangely  enough,  I  was  thinking  of  you  this  very 
afternoon,  Natalia  Viktorovna.  I  met  Mr.  Razumov. 
I  asked  him  to  write  me  an  article  on  anything  he 
liked.  You  could  translate  it  into  English — with  such 
a  teacher." 

He  nodded  complimentarily  in  my  direction.  At  the 
name  of  Razumov  an  indescribable  sound,  a  sort  of 
feeble  squeak,  as  of  some  angry  small  animal,  was  heard 
in  the  corner  occupied  by  the  man  who  seemed  much  too 
bulky  for  the  chair  on  which  he  sat.  I  did  not  hear  what 
Miss  Haldin  said.     It  was  Laspara  who  spoke  again. 

"  It's  time  to  do  something,  Natalia  Viktorovna.  But 
I  suppose  you  have  your  own  ideas.     Why  not  write 

324 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

something  yourself  ?  Suppose  you  come  to  see  us  soon  ? 
We  could  talk  it  over.     Any  advice  ..." 

Again  I  did  not  catch  Miss  Haldin's  words.  It  was 
Laspara's  voice  once  more. 

"Peter  Ivanovitch?  He's  retired  for  a  moment  into 
the  other  room.     We  are  all  waiting  for  him." 

The  great  man,  entering  at  that  moment,  looked 
bigger,  taller,  quite  imposing  in  a  long  dressing-gown  of 
some  dark  stuff.  It  descended  in  straight  lines  down  to 
his  feet.  He  suggested  a  monk  or  a  prophet,  a  robust 
figure  of  some  desert-dweller — something  Asiatic;  and 
the  dark  glasses  in  conjunction  with  this  costume  made 
him  more  mysterious  than  ever  in  that  subdued  light. 

Little  Laspara  went  back  to  his  chair  to  look  at  the 
map,  the  only  brilliantly  lighted  object  in  the  room. 
Even  from  my  distant  position  by  the  door,  I  could  make 
out,  mainly  by  the  shape  of  the  blue  part  representing 
the  water,  that  it  was  a  map  of  the  Baltic  provinces. 
Peter  Ivanovitch  exclaimed  slightly,  advancing  toward 
Miss  Haldin,  checked  himself  on  perceiving  me,  very 
vaguely  no  doubt,  and  peered  with  his  dark-bespectacled 
stare.  He  must  have  recognized  me  by  my  gray  hair, 
because,  with  a  marked  shrug  of  his  broad  shoulders,  he 
turned  to  Miss  Haldin  in  benevolent  indulgence.  He 
seized  her  hand  and  put  his  other  big  paw  like  a  lid 
over  it. 

While  those  two,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
were  exchanging  a  few  inaudible  phrases,  no  one  else 
moved  in  the  room;  Laspara,  with  his  back  to  us,  kneel- 
ing on  the  chair,  his  elbows  propped  on  the  big  scale  map, 
the  shadowy  enormity  in  the  corner,  the  frankly  staring 
man  with  the  goatee  on  the  sofa,  the  woman  in  the  red 
blouse  by  his  side — not  one  of  them  stirred.  I  suppose 
that  really  they  had  no  time,  for  Miss  Haldin  withdrew 
her  hand  immediately,  and  before  I  was  ready  for  her 
was  moving  to  the  door.  A  disregarded  westerner,  I 
threw  it  open  hurriedly  and  followed  her  out,  my  last 

325 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

glance,  as  I  was  closing  the  door,  leaving  them  all  mo- 
tionless in  their  varied  poses.  Peter  Ivanovitch  alone 
standing  up,  with  his  dark  glasses  like  an  enormous  blind 
teacher,  and  behind  him  the  vivid  patch  of  light  of  the 
colored  map,  pored  over  by  the  diminutive  Laspara. 

Later  on,  much  later  on,  at  the  time  of  the  newspaper 
rumors  (they  were  vague  and  soon  died  out)  of  an  abor- 
tive military  conspiracy  in  Russia,  I  remembered  the 
glimpse  I  had  of  that  motionless  group  with  its  central 
figure.  Planned  as  an  attempt  to  seize  power,  it  was  to 
break  out  at  a  great  review.  No  details  ever  came  out, 
but  it  was  known  that  the  revolutionary  parties  abroad 
had  given  their  assistance,  had  sent  emissaries  in  ad- 
vance, that  even  money  was  found  to  despatch  a 
steamer  with  a  cargo  of  arms  and  conspirators  to  in- 
vade the  Baltic  provinces.  And  while  my  eyes  scanned 
the  imperfect  disclosures  (in  which  the  world  was  not 
much  interested)  I  thought  that  the  old  settled  Europe 
had  been  given  in  my  person  attending  that  Russian 
girl  something  like  a  glimpse  behind  the  scenes.  A  short, 
strange  glimpse  on  the  top  floor  of  a  great  hotel,  of 
all  places  in  the  world :  the  great  man  himself,  the  mo- 
tionless great  bulk  in  the  corner  of  the  slayer  of  spies 
and  gendarmes,  Yakovlitch,  the  veteran  of  ancient 
terrorist  campaigns;  the  woman  with  her  hair  as  white 
as  mine  and  the  lively  black  eyes  all  in  a  mysterious 
half-light,  with  the  strongly  lighted  map  of  Russia  on 
the  table.  The  woman  I  had  the  opportunity  to  see 
again.  As  we  were  waiting  for  the  lift  she  came  hurry- 
ing along  the  corridor,  with  her  eyes  fastened  on  Miss 
Haldin's  face,  and  drew  her  aside  as  if  for  a  confiden- 
tial communication.  It  was  not  long.  A  few  words 
only. 

Going  down  in  the  lift,  Nathalie  Haldin  did  not  break 
the  silence.  It  was  only  when  out  of  the  hotel  and  as  we 
moved  along  the  quay  in  the  fresh  darkness  spangled  by 
the  quay  lights,  reflected  in  the  black  water  of  the  little 

326 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

port  on  our  left  hand,  and  with  lofty  piles  of  hotels  on  our 
right,  that  she  spoke. 

"That  was  Sophia  Antonovna  —  you  know  the 
woman  .  .  ." 

"Yes.     I  know — ^the  famous  ..." 

"The  same.  It  appears  that  after  we  went  out  Peter 
Ivanovitch  told  them  why  I  had  come.  That  was  the 
reason  she  came  out  after  us.  She  named  herself  to  me, 
and  then  she  said :  '  You  are  the  sister  of  a  brave  man  who 
shall  be  remembered.  You  may  see  better  times.'  I 
told  her  I  hoped  to  see  the  time  when  all  this  would  be 
forgotten,  even  if  the  name  of  my  brother  were  to  be 
forgotten,  too.  Something  moved  me  to  say  that,  but 
you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "You  think  of  the  era  of  concord  and 
justice.     The  destructors  should  be  anonymous." 

"Yes.  There  is  too  much  hate  and  revenge  in  that 
work.  It  must  be  done.  It  is  a  sacrifice — and  so  let  it  be 
all  the  greater.  Destruction  is  the  work  of  anger.  Let 
the  tyrants  and  the  slayers  be  forgotten  together  and 
only  the  reconstructors  be  remembered." 

"  And  did  Sophia  Antonovna  agree  with  you  ?"  I  asked, 
skeptically. 

"She  did  not  say  anything  except,  *  It  is  good  for  you 
to  believe  in  love.'  I  should  think  she  understood  me. 
Then  she  asked  me  if  I  hoped  to  see  Mr.  Razumov 
presently.  I  said  I  trusted  I  could  manage  to  bring 
him  to  see  my  mother  this  evening,  as  my  mother  has 
learned  of  his  being  here  and  is  morbidly  impatient 
to  learn  if  he  could  tell  us  something  of  Victor.  He  was 
the  only  friend  of  my  brother  we  knew  of  and  a  great 
intimate.  She  said :  *  Oh !  your  brother — yes.  Please  tell 
Mr.  Razumov  that  I  have  made  known  the  story  which 
came  to  me  from  St.  Petersburg.  It  concerns  your 
brother's  arrest,'  she  added.  *  He  was  betrayed  by  a 
man  of  the  people  who  has  since  hanged  himself.  Mr. 
Razumov  will  explain  it  all  to  you.  I  gave  him  the 
22  327 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

full  information  this  afternoon.  And  please  tell  Mr. 
Razumov  that  Sophia  Antonovna  sends  him  her  greet- 
ings.   I  am  going  away  early  in  the  morning — far  away . ' ' ' 

And  Miss  Haldin  added,  after  a  moment  of  silence : 

"I  was  so  moved  by  what  I  heard  so  unexpectedly 
that  I  simply  could  not  speak  to  you  before.  ...  A 
man  of  the  people!     Oh,  our  poor  people!" 

She  walked  slowly,  as  if  tired  out  suddenly,  her  head 
drooped;  from  the  windows  of  a  building  with  terraces 
and  balconies  came  the  banal  sound  of  hotel  music. 
Before  the  low,  mean  portals  of  the  Casino  two  red 
posters  blazed  under  the  electric  lamps,  with  a  cheap, 
provincial  effect.  And  the  emptiness  of  the  quays,  the 
desert  aspect  of  the  streets,  had  an  air  of  hypocritical 
respectability  and  of  inexpressible  dreariness. 

I  had  taken  for  granted  she  had  obtained  the  address 
and  let  myself  be  guided  by  her.  On  the  Mont  Blanc 
bridge,  where  a  few  dark  figures  seemed  lost  in  the  wide 
and  long  perspective  defined  by  the  lights,  she  said: 

'*  It  isn't  very  far  from  our  house.  I  somehow  thought 
it  couldn't  be.  The  address  is  Rue  du  Carouge.  I  think 
it  must  be  one  of  those  big,  new  houses  for  artisans." 

She  took  my  arm  confidingly,  familiarly,  and  acceler- 
ated her  pace.  There  was  something  primitive  in  all 
her  proceedings.  She  did  not  think  of  the  resources  of 
civilization.  A  late  tram-car  overtook  us;  a  row  of 
-fiacres  stood  by  the  railing  of  the  gardens.  It  never 
entered  her  head  to  make  use  of  these  conveyances. 
Neither  did  it  enter  mine.  She  was  too  hurried,  per- 
haps, and,  as  to  myself — well,  she  had  taken  my  arm 
confidingly.  As  we  were  ascending  the  easy  incline  of 
the  Corraterie,  all  the  shops  shuttered  and  no  light  in  any 
of  the  windows  (as  if  all  the  mercenary  population  had 
fled  at  the  end  of  the  day),  she  said,  tentatively: 

"I  could  run  in  for  a  moment  to  have  a  look  at 
mother.     It  would  not  be  much  out  of  the  way." 

I  dissuaded  her.     If  Mrs.  Haldin  really  expected  to 

328 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

see  Razumov  that  night,  it  would  have  been  unwise  to 
show  herself  without  him.  The  sooner  we  got  hold  of 
the  young  man  and  brought  him  along  to  calm  her 
mother's  agitation  the  better.  She  assented  to  my  rea- 
soning, and  we  crossed  diagonally  the  Place  de  Theatre, 
all  gray  with  its  floor  of  slabs  of  stone  under  the  electric 
lamps,  and  the  lonely  equestrian  statue  all  black  in  the 
middle.  In  the  Rue  du  Carouge  we  were  in  the  poorer 
quarters,  and  approaching  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 
Vacant  building-plots  alternated  with  high,  new  houses. 
At  the  corner  of  a  side  street,  cutting  its  unpaved  road- 
way through  a  dark  wilderness  of  waste  ground,  the 
crude  light  of  a  whitewashed  shop  fell  into  the  night, 
fanlike,  through  a  wide  doorway.  One  could  see  from 
a  distance  the  inner  wall,  with  its  scantily  furnished 
shelves  and  the  deal  counter  painted  brown.  That 
was  the  house.  Approaching  it  along  the  dark  stretch  of 
a  fence  of  tarred  planks,  we  saw  the  narrow,  pallid  face 
of  the  cut  angle,  five  windows  high,  without  a  gleam  in 
them  and  crowned  by  the  heavy  shadow  of  a  jutting  roof 
slope. 

"We  must  inquire  in  the  shop,"  Miss  Haldin  directed 
me. 

A  sallow,  thinly  whiskered  man,  wearing  a  dingy  white 
collar  and  a  frayed  tie,  laid  down  a  black,  smudgy  news- 
paper and,  leaning  familiarly  on  both  elbows  far  over  the 
bare  counter,  answered  that  the  person  I  was  inquiring 
for  was  indeed  his  locataire  on  the  third  floor,  but  that 
for  the  moment  he  was  out. 

"For  the  moment,"  I  repeated,  after  a  glance  at  Miss 
Haldin.  "Does  that  mean  that  you  expect  him  back 
at  once?" 

He  was  very  gentle,  with  ingratiating  eyes  and  soft 
lips.  He  smiled  faintly,  as  though  he  knew  all  about 
everything.  Mr.  Razumov,  after  being  absent  all  day, 
had  returned  early  in  the  evening.  He  was  very  sur- 
prised about  half  an  hour  or  a  little  more  since  to  see 

329 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

him  come  down  again.  Mr.  Razumov  left  his  key,  and, 
in  the  course  of  some  words  which  passed  between  them, 
had  remarked  that  he  was  going  out  because  he  needed 
air. 

From  behind  the  bare  counter  he  went  on  smiling  at 
us,  his  head  held  between  his  hands.  Air.  Air.  But 
whether  that  meant  a  long  or  a  short  absence  it  was 
difficult  to  say.     The  night  was  very  close,  certainly. 

After  a  pause,  his  ingratiating  eyes  turned  to  the  door, 
he  added : 

"The  storm  shall  drive  him  in." 

"There's  going  to  be  a  storm?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  yes." 

As  if  to  confirm  his  words  we  heard  a  very  distant, 
deep,  rumbling  noise. 

Consulting  Miss  Haldin  by  a  glance,  I  saw  her  so  re- 
luctant to  give  up  her  quest  that  I  asked  the  shopkeeper 
in  case  Mr.  Razumov  came  home  within  half  an  hour 
to  beg  him  to  remain  down-stairs  in  the  shop.  We  would 
look  in  again  presently. 

For  all  answer  he  moved  his  head  imperceptibly.  The 
approval  of  Miss  Haldin  was  expressed  by  her  silence. 
We  walked  slowly  down  the  street,  away  from  the  town ; 
the  low  garden  walls  of  the  modest  villas,  doomed  to 
demolition,  were  overhung  by  the  boughs  of  trees  and 
masses  of  foliage,  lighted  from  below  by  gas-lamps.  The 
violent  and  monotonous  noise  of  the  icy  Arve  falling  over 
a  low  dam  swept  toward  us  with  a  chilly  draught  of  air 
over  a  great  open  space,  where  a  double  line  of  lamp- 
lights defined  a  street  as  yet  without  houses.  But  on  the 
other  shore,  overhung  by  the  thunder-cloud,  a  solitary 
dim  light,  low  in  the  complete  darkness,  seemed  to  watch 
us  with  a  steady  stare.  When  we  had  strolled  as  far  as 
the  bridge,  I  said : 

"We  had  better  get  back.  .  .  ." 

In  the  shop  the  sickly  man  was  studying  the  smudgy 
newspaper,  now  spread  out  largely  on  the  counter.     He 

330 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

just  raised  his  head  when  I  looked  in  and  shook  it  nega- 
tively, pursing  his  lips.  I  rejoined  Miss  Haldin  outside 
at  once  and  we  moved  off  at  a  brisk  pace.  She  remarked 
that  she  would  send  Anna  with  a  note  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning.  I  respected  her  taciturnity,  silence  being, 
perhaps,  the  best  way  to  show  my  concern. 

The  semi-rural  street  we  followed  on  our  return 
changed  gradually  to  the  usual  town  thoroughfare, 
broad  and  deserted.  We  did  not  meet  four  people  al- 
together, and  the  way  seemed  interminable,  because  my 
companion's  natural  anxiety  had  communicated  itself 
sympathetically  to  me.  At  last  we  turned  into  the 
Boulevard  des  Philosophes,  more  wide,  more  empty, 
more  dead — the  very  desolation  of  slumbering  respecta- 
bility. At  the  sight  of  the  two  lighted  windows,  very 
conspicuous  from  afar,  I  had  the  mental  vision  of  Mrs. 
Haldin  in  her  arm-chair  keeping  a  dreadful,  tormenting 
vigil  under  the  evil  spell  of  an  arbitrary  rule,  a  victim  of 
tyranny  and  revolution,  a  sight  at  once  cruel  and 
absurd. 


Ill 


**  \/0U  will  come  in   for  a  moment?'*  said  Nathalie 

1    Haldin. 

I  demurred  on  account  of  the  late  hour.  **  You  know 
mother  likes  you  so  much,"  she  insisted. 

"  I  will  just  come  in  to  hear  how  your  mother  is." 

She  said,  as  if  to  herself,  "I  don't  even  know  whether 
she  will  believe  that  I  could  not  find  Mr.  Razumov,  since 
she  has  taken  it  into  her  head  that  I  am  concealing  some- 
thing from  her.     You  may  be  able  to  persuade  her.  .  .  ." 

''Your  mother  may  mistrust  me,  too!"  I  observed. 

"  You !  Why  ?  What  could  you  have  to  conceal  from 
her?     You  are  not  a  Russian  nor  a  conspirator.   .   .  ." 

I  felt  profoundly  my  European  remoteness,  and  said 
nothing,  but  I  made  up  my  mind  to  play  my  part  of 
helpless  spectator  to  the  end.  The  distant  rolling  of 
thunder  in  the  valley  of  the  Rhone  was  coming  nearer 
to  the  sleeping  town  of  prosaic  virtues  and  universal 
hospitality.  We  crossed  the  street  opposite  the  great 
dark  gateway,  and  Miss  Haldin  rang  at  the  door  of  the 
apartment.  It  was  opened  almost  instantly,  as  if  the 
elderly  maid  had  been  waiting  in  the  anteroom  for  our 
return.  Her  flat  physiognomy  had  an  air  of  satisfaction. 
The  gentleman  was  there,  she  declared  while  closing  the 
door. 

Neither  of  us  understood.  Miss  Haldin  turned  round 
brusquely  to  her.     "Who?" 

"Herr  Razumov,"  she  explained. 

She  had  heard  enough  of  our  conversation  before  we 
left  to  know  why  her  young  mistress  was"  going  out. 

332 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Therefore,  when  the  gentleman  gave  his  name  at  the 
door  she  admitted  him  at  once. 

"No  one  could  have  foreseen  that,"  Miss  Haldin  mur- 
mured, with  her  serious  gray  eyes  fixed  upon  mine.  And, 
remembering  the  expression  of  the  young  man's  face 
seen  not  much  more  than  four  hours  ago,  the  look  as  of  a 
haunted  somnambulist,  I  wondered  with  a  sort  of  awe. 

**  You  asked  my  mother  first?"  Miss  Haldin  inquired 
of  the  maid. 

"No.  I  announced  the  gentleman,"  she  answered, 
surprised  at  our  troubled  faces. 

"Still,"  I  said,  in  an  undertone,  "your  mother  was 
prepared."* 

"  Yes.     But  he  has  no  idea  .  .  ." 

It  seemed  to  me  she  doubted  his  tact.  To  her  ques- 
tion how  long  the  gentleman  had  been  with  her  mother, 
the  maid  told  us  that  der  Herr  had  been  in  the  drawing- 
room  no  more  than  a  short  quarter  of  an  hour. 

She  waited  a  moment,  then  withdrew,  looking  a  little 
Scared.     Miss  Haldin  gazed  at  me  in  silence. 

"As  things  have  turned  out,"  I  said,  "you  happen  to 
know  exactly  what  your  brother's  friend  has  to  tell  your 
mother.     And  surely  after  that  ..." 

"  Yes,"  said  Nathalie  Haldin,  slowly.  "  I  only  wonder, 
as  I  was  not  there  when  he  came,  if  it  wouldn't  be  better 
not  to  interrupt  now." 

We  remained  silent,  and  I  suppose  we  both  strained  our 
ears,  but  no  sound  reached  us  through  the  closed  door. 
The  features  of  Miss  Haldin  expressed  a  painful  irreso- 
lution; she  made  a  movement  as  if  to  go  in,  but 
checked  herself.  She  had  heard  footsteps  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door.  It  came  open,  and  Razumov,  without 
pausing,  stepped  out  into  the  anteroom.  The  fatigue  of 
that  day  and  the  struggle  with  himself  had  changed  him 
so  much  that  perhaps  I  would  have  hesitated  to  recog- 
nize that  face  which,  only  a  few  hours  before,  when  he 
brushed  against  me  in  front  of  the  post-office,  had  been 

333 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

startling  enough  but  quite  different.  It  had  been  not 
so  livid  then,  and  its  eyes  not  so  somber.  They  certainly 
looked  more  sane  now,  but  there  was  upon  them  the 
shadow  of  something  consciously  evil. 

I  speak  of  that  because,  at  first,  their  glance  fell  on  me, 
though  without  any  sort  of  recognition  or  even  compre- 
hension. I  was  simply  in  the  line  of  his  stare.  I  don't 
know  if  he  had  heard  the  bell  or  expected  to  see  anybody. 
He  was  going  out,  I  believe,  and  I  do  not  think  that  he 
saw  Miss  Haldin  till  she  advanced  toward  him  a  step  or 
two.     He  did  not  notice  the  hand  she  put  out. 

**  It's  you,  Natalia  Viktorovna. . . .  Perhaps  you  are  sur- 
prised ...  at  this  late  hour.  But,  you  see,  I  remembered 
our  conversations  in  that  garden.  I  thought  really  it  was 
your  wish  that  I  should — without  loss  of  time  ...  so  I 
came.     No  other  reason.     Simply  to  tell  ..." 

He  spoke  with  difficulty.  I  noticed  that,  and  re- 
membered his  declaration  to  the  man  in  the  shop  that  he 
was  going  out  because  he  **  needed  air."  If  that  was  his 
object,  then  it  was  clear  that  he  had  miserably  failed. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  lowered  head  he  made  an  effort 
to  pick  up  the  strangled  phrase. 

"To  tell  what  I  have  heard  myself  only  to-day — 
to-day  .  .  ." 

Through  the  door  he  had  not  closed  I  had  a  view  of 
the  drawing-room.  It  was  lighted  up  only  by  a  shaded 
lamp — Mrs.  Haldin's  eyes  could  not  support  either  gas  or 
electricity.  It  was  a  comparatively  big  room,  and,  in 
contrast  with  the  strongly  lighted  anteroom,  its  length 
was  lost  in  semi-transparent  gloom  backed  by  heavy 
shadows;  and  on  that  ground  I  saw  the  fine,  motionless 
profile  of  Mrs.  Haldin's  bloodless  face,  inclined  slightly 
forward,  with  a  pale  hand  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

She  did  not  move.  With  the  window  before  her  she 
had  no  longer  that  attitude  suggesting  expectation. 
The  blind  was  down;  and  outside  there  was  only  the 
night  sky  harboring  a  thunder-cloud,  and  the  town  in- 

334 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

different  and  hospitable  in  its  cold,  almost  scornful 
toleration — a  strange  town  of  refuge  to  which  all  these 
sorrows  and  hopes  were  nothing.  Her  white  head  was 
bowed. 

The  thought  that  the  real  drama  of  autocracy  is  not 
played  on  the  great  stage  of  politics  came  to  me  as, 
fated  to  be  a  spectator,  I  had  this  other  glimpse  behind 
the  scenes,  something  more  profound  than  the  words 
and  gestures  of  the  public  play.  I  had  the  certitude 
that  this  mother,  after  having  heard  now  all  that  was 
to  be  known  of  her  son's  fate,  refused  in  her  heart  to  give 
him  up  after  all.  It  was  more  than  Rachel's  inconsola- 
ble mourning,  it  was  something  deeper,  more  inacces- 
sible in  its  frightful  tranquillity.  Lost  in  the  ill-defined 
mass  of  the  high-backed  chair,  her  white,  inclined  profile 
suggested  the  contemplation  of  something  in  her  lap, 
as  though  a  beloved  head  were  resting  there. 

I  had  this  glimpse  behind  the  scenes,  and  then  Miss 
Haldin,  passing  by  the  young  man,  shut  the  door.  It 
was  not  done  without  hesitation.  For  a  moment  I 
thought  that  she  would  go  to  her  mother,  but  she  sent 
in  only  an  anxious  glance.  Perhaps  if  Mrs.  Haldin  had 
moved,  .  .  .  but  no.  There  was  in  the  immobility  of 
that  white  profile  the  dreadful  aloofness  of  suffering 
without  remedy. 

Meantime  the  young  man  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
floor.  The  thought  that  he  would  have  to  repeat  the 
story  he  had  told  already  was  intolerable  to  him.  He 
had  expected  to  find  the  two  women  together.  And 
then,  he  had  said  to  himself,  it  would  be  over  for  all  time 
— for  all  time.  "It's  lucky  I  don't  believe  in  another 
world,"  he  had  thought,  cynically. 

Alone  in  his  room  he  had  regained  a  certain  measure  of 
composure  by  writing  in  his  secret  diary.  He  was  aware 
of  the  danger  of  that  strange  self-indulgence.  He  al- 
ludes to  it  himself,  but  he  could  not  refrain.  It  calmed 
him — it  reconciled  him  to  his  existence.     He  sat  there 

335 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

scribbling  by  the  light  of  a  solitary  candle  till  it  occurred 
to  him  that,  having  heard  the  explanation  of  Haldin's 
arrest  as  put  forward  by  Sophia  Antonovna,  it  behooved 
him  to  tell  these  ladies  himself.  They  were  certain  to 
hear  the  tale  through  some  other  channel;  and  then 
his  abstention  would  look  strange,  not  only  to  the 
mother  and  sister  of  Haldin,  but  to  other  people  also. 
Having  come  to  this  conclusion,  he  did  not  discover  in 
himself  any  marked  reluctance  to  face  the  necessity,  and 
very  soon  an  anxiety  to  be  done  with  it  began  to  torment 
him.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  No;  it  was  not  abso- 
lutely too  late. 

He  was  calmed  by  his  self-communion;  that  dread 
which  had  kept  him  for  days  from  facing  Miss  Haldin 
was  gone.  He  felt  nothing  of  it,  perhaps  simply  for  the 
reason  that  now  he  had  a  story  to  tell.  It  had  been 
settled  for  him;  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  have  it 
over  and  done  with.  The  fact  that  these  were  women 
he  was  going  to  meet  did  not  trouble  him  especially.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  did  not  recognize  women  as  women. 
There  had  been  literally  no  feminine  influence  in  his  life. 
Women  were  human  beings  for  him  and  nothing  more, 
somewhat  in  the  background,  not  to  be  thought  of  in  any 
special  way.  He  simply  knew  nothing  of  them  in  any 
relation ;  no  woman  had  ever  influenced  a  dream  of  his, 
taken  up  a  moment  of  his  time,  or  awakened  any  of  his 
dormant  feelings;  no  thought  of  woman  had  enriched 
his  life  by  a  touch  of  amenity,  of  color,  of  revery.  It 
may  be  said  that,  in  a  manner,  he  had  never  seen  a 
woman,  for  even  Sophia  Antonovna  was  a  conspirator, 
a  revolutionist,  a  dangerous  person  with  whom  he  must 
be  on  his  guard  more  than  with  anybody  else — nothing 
more. 

The  fifteen  minutes  with  Mrs.  Haldin  were  like  the 
revenge  of  the  unknown;  that  white  face,  that  weak, 
distinct  voice,  that  head,  at  first  turned  to  him  eagerly, 
then,  after  a  while,  bowed  again  and  motionless — in  the 

33^ 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

dim,  still  light  of  the  room  in  which  his  words,  which  he 
tried  to  subdue,  resounded  so  loudly — had  troubled  him 
like  some  strange  discovery.  And  there  seemed  to  be  a 
secret  obstinacy  in  that  sorrow,  something  he  could  not 
understand;  at  any  rate,  something  he  had  not  ex- 
pected. Was  it  hostile  ?  But  it  did  not  matter.  Noth- 
ing could  touch  him  now;  in  the  eyes  of  revolutionists 
there  was  now  no  shadow  of  his  past.  The  phantom  of 
Haldin  had  been  indeed  walked  over,  was  left  behind, 
lying  powerless  and  passive  on  the  pavement  covered 
with  snow.  And  this  was  the  phantom's  mother,  con- 
sumed with  grief  and  white  as  a  ghost.  He  had  felt  a 
pitying  surprise.  But  that,  of  course,  was  of  no  im- 
portance. Mothers  did  not  matter.  He  could  not  shake 
off  the  poignant  impression  of  that  silent,  quiet,  white- 
haired  woman,  but  a  sort  of  sternness  crept  into  his 
thoughts.  These  were  the  consequences.  Well,  what  of 
it?  "Am  I,  then,  on  a  bed  of  roses?"  he  had  exclaimed 
to  himself,  sitting  at  some  distance,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  that  figure  of  sorrow.  He  had  said  all  he  had  to 
say  to  her,  and  when  he  had  finished  she  had  not  ut- 
tered a  word.  She  had  turned  away  her  head  while  he 
was  speaking  The  silence  which  had  fallen  on  his  last 
words  had  lasted  for  five  minutes  or  more.  What  did  it 
mean?  Before  its  incomprehensible  character  he  be- 
came conscious  of  anger  in  his  stem  mood,  the  old  anger 
against  Haldin  reaw^akened  by  the  contemplation  of 
Haldin's  mother.  And  was  it  not  something  like  en- 
viousness  which  gripped  his  heart  as  if  of  a  privilege  de- 
nied to  him  alone  of  all  the  men  that  had  ever  passed 
through  this  world  ?  It  was  the  other  who  had  attained 
to  repose  and  yet  continued  to  exist  in  the  affection  of 
that  mourning  old  woman,  in  the  thoughts  of  all  these 
people  posing  for  lovers  of  humanity.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  get  rid  of  him.  "It's  myself  that  I  have  given  up 
to  destruction,"  thought  Razumov.  "He  has  induced 
me  to  do  it.     I  can't  shake  him  off." 

337 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Alarmed  by  that  discovery,  he  got  up  and  strode  out  of 
the  silent,  dim  room  with  its  silent  old  woman  in  the 
chair,  that  mother!  He  never  looked  back.  It  was 
frankly  a  flight.  But  on  opening  the  door  he  saw  his 
retreat  cut  off.  There  was  the  sister.  He  had  never 
forgotten  the  sister,  only  he  had  not  expected  to  see  her 
then — or  ever  any  more,  perhaps.  He  had  looked  upon 
her  as  out  of  the  way,  somewhere  within,  avoided  for 
good.  Her  presence  in  the  anteroom  was  as  unforeseen 
as  the  apparition  of  her  brother  had  been.  Razumov 
gave  a  start  as  though  he  had  discovered  himself  cleverly 
trapped.  He  tried  to  smile,  but  could  not  manage  it,  and 
lowered  his  eyes.  "Must  I  repeat  that  silly  story  now?" 
he  asked  himself  and  felt  a  sinking  sensation.  Nothing 
solid  had  passed  his  lips  since  the  day  before,  but  he  was 
not  in  a  state  to  analyze  the  origins  of  his  weakness.  He 
meant  to  take  up  his  hat  and  depart  with  as  few  words 
as  possible,  but  Miss  Haldin's  swift  movement  to  shut 
the  door  took  him  by  surprise.  He  half  turned  after 
her,  but  without  raising  his  eyes,  passively,  just  as  a 
feather  might  stir  in  the  disturbed  air.  The  next  mo- 
ment she  was  back  in  the  place  she  had  started  from, 
with  another  half-turn  on  his  part,  so  that  they  came 
again  into  the  same  relative  positions. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "I  am  very  grateful 
to  you,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  for  coming  at  once — like  this. 
.  .  .  Only  I  wish  I  had  .  .  .  Did  mother  tell  you?" 

"  I  wonder  what  she  could  have  told  me  that  I  did  not 
know  before,"  he  said,  obviously  to  himself,  but  perfectly 
audibly.  "  Because  I  did  know  it,"  he  added,  louder,  as 
if  in  despair.     "I  always  knew  it." 

He  raised  his  head  then.  He  had  such  a  strong  sense 
of  Nathalie  Haldin's  presence  that  to  look  at  her  he  felt 
would  be  a  relief.  It  was  she  who  had  been  haunting 
him  now.  He  had  suffered  that  persecution  ever  since 
she  had  suddenly  appeared  before  him  in  the  garden  of 
the  Villa  Borel  with  an  extended  hand  and  the  name  of 

338 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

her  brother  on  her  lips.  The  anteroom  contained  a 
row  of  hooks  on  the  wall  nearest  to  the  outer  door, 
while  against  the  wall  opposite  there  stood  a  small  dark 
table  and  one  chair.  The  paper,  bearing  a  very  faint 
design,  was  all  but  white.  The  light  of  an  electric  bulb 
high  up  under  the  ceiling  searched  that  clear  square 
box  into  its  four  bare  corners,  crudely,  without  shadows 
— a  strange  stage  for  an  obscure  drama. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Miss  Haldin.  "What 
is  it  that  you  knew  always?" 

He  raised  to  her  his  face,  pale,  full  of  unexpressed  suf- 
fering. But  that  look  in  his  eyes  of  a  dull,  absent  ob- 
stinacy which  struck  and  surprised  everybody  he  was 
talking  to,  began  to  pass  away.  It  was  as  though  he 
were  coming  to  himself  in  the  awakened  consciousness 
of  that  marvelous  harmony  of  feature,  of  lines,  of 
glances,  of  voice,  which  made  of  the  girl  before  him  a 
being  so  rare,  outside,  and,  as  it  were,  above  the  common 
notion  of  beauty.  He  looked  at  her  so  long  that  she 
colored  slightly. 

"What  is  it  that  you  knew?"  she  repeated,  vaguely. 

That  time  he  managed  a  smile. 

"Indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  word  of  greeting  or 
two  I  would  doubt  whether  your  mother  is  aware  at  all 
of  my  existence.     You  understand?" 

Nathalie  Haldin  nodded;  her  hands  moved  slightly  by 
her  side. 

"Yes.  Is  it  not  heartbreaking?  She  has  not  shed  a 
tear  yet — ^not  a  single  tear.  ..." 

"Not  a  tear!  And  you,  Natalia  Viktorovna?  You 
have  been  able  to  cry?" 

"I  have.  And  then  I  am  young  enough,  Kirylo 
Sidorovitch,  to  believe  in  the  future.  But  when  I  see 
my  mother  so  terribly  distracted  I  almost  forget  every- 
thing. I  ask  myself  whether  one  should  feel  proud — or 
only  resigned.  We  had  such  a  lot  of  people  coming  to 
see  us.     There  were  utter  strangers  whd  wrote,  asking 

339 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

for  permission  to  call  to  present  their  respects.  It  was 
impossible  to  keep  our  door  shut  forever.  You  know 
Peter  Ivanovitch  himself  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  there  was  much 
sympathy,  but  there  were  persons  who  exulted  openly  at 
that  death.  Then,  when  I  was  left  alone  with  poor 
mother,  all  this  seemed  so  wrong  in  spirit,  something  not 
worth  the  price  she  is  paying  for  it.  But  directly  I  heard 
you  were  here  in  Geneva,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  I  felt  that 
you  were  the  only  person  who  could  assist  me  ..." 

"In  comforting  a  bereaved  mother?  Yes!"  he  broke 
in  in  a  manner  which  made  her  open  her  clear,  unsuspect- 
ing eyes.  "  But  there  is  a  question  of  fitness.  Has  this 
occurred  to  you?" 

There  was  a  breathlessness  in  his  utterance  which  con- 
trasted with  the  monstrous  hint  of  mockery  in  his 
intention. 

"Why!"  whispered  Nathalie  Haldin,  with  feeling. 
"Who  more  fit  than  you?" 

He  had  a  convulsive  movement  of  exasperation  but 
controlled  himself. 

"  Indeed!  Directly  you  heard  I  was  in  Geneva,  before 
even  seeing  me  ?  It  is  another  proof  of  that  confidence 
which  .  .  ." 

All  at  once  his  tone  changed,  became  more  incisive 
and  more  detached. 

"Men  are  poor  creatures,  Natalia  Viktorovna.  They 
have  no  intuition  of  sentiment.  In  order  to  speak  fit- 
tingly to  a  mother  of  her  lost  son  one  must  have  had 
some  experience  of  the  filial  relation.  It  is  not  the  case 
with  me — if  you  must  know  the  whole  truth.  Your 
hopes  have  to  deal  here  with  *  a  breast  un warmed  by  any 
affection,'  as  the  poet  says.  .  .  .  That  does  not  mean 
it  is  insensible,"  he  added,  in  a  lowered  tone. 

"I  am  certain  your  heart  is  not  unfeeling,"  said  Miss 
Haldin,  softly. 

"No.  It  is  not  as  hard  as  a  stone,"  he  went  on  in 
the    same  introspective  voice,   and    looking  as   if   his 

340 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

heart  were  lying  as  heavy  as  a  stone  in  that  unwarmed 
breast  of  which  he  spoke.  '*No,  not  so  hard.  But  how 
to  prove  what  you  give  me  credit  for — ah,  that's  another 
question.  No  one  has  ever  expected  such  a  thing  from 
me  before.  No  one  whom  my  tenderness  would  have 
been  of  any  use  to.  And  now  you  come.  You!  Now! 
No,  Natalia  Viktorovna.  It's  too  late.  You  come  too 
late.     You  must  expect  nothing  from  me." 

She  recoiled  from  him  a  little,  though  he  had  made  no 
movement,  no  gesture,  but  as  if  she  had  seen  some  change 
in  his  face  charging  his  words  with  the  significance  of 
some  hidden  sentiment  they  shared  together.  To  me, 
the  silent  spectator,  they  looked  in  a  moment  of  sudden 
insight  like  two  people  becoming  conscious  of  a  spell 
which  had  been  lying  on  them  ever  since  they  first  set 
eyes  on  each  other.  Had  either  of  them  cast  a  glance, 
then,  in  my  direction,  I  would  have  opened  the  door 
quietly  and  gone  out.  But  neither  did;  and  I  remained, 
every  fear  of  indiscretion  lost  in  the  sense  of  my  enor- 
mous remoteness  from  their  captivity  within  the  somber 
horizon  of  Russian  problems,  the  boundary  of  their  eyes, 
of  their  feelings,  the  prison  of  their  souls. 

Frank,  courageous,  Miss  Haldin  controlled  her.  voice 
in  the  midst  of  her  slight  trouble. 

"What  can  this  mean?"  she  asked,  as  if  speaking  to 
herself. 

"  It  may  mean  that  you  have  given  yourself  up  to  vain 
imaginings,  while  I  have  managed  to  remain  among  the 
truth  of  things  and  the  realities  of  life — our  Russian  life — 
such  as  they  are." 

**They  are  cruel,"  she  murmured. 

"And  ugly.  Don't  forget  that  —  and  ugly.  Look 
where  you  like.  Look  near  you,  here  abroad  where  you 
are,  and  then  look  back  at  home  whence  you  came." 

"You  must  look  beyond  the  present."  Her  tone  had 
an  ardent  conviction. 

"The  blind  can  do  that  best.  I  have  had  the  mis- 
341 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

fortune  to  be  born  clear-eyed.  And  if  you  only  knew 
what  strange  things  I  have  seen!  What  amazing  and 
unexpected  apparitions  .  .  .  But  why  talk  of  all  this?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  want  to  talk  of  all  this  with  you," 
she  protested,  with  grave  serenity.  The  somber  humors 
of  her  brother's  friend  left  her  unaffected,  as  though  that 
bitterness,  that  suppressed  anger,  were  the  signs  of  an  in- 
dignant rectitude.  She  saw  that  he  was  not  an  ordinary 
personality,  and  perhaps  she  did  not  want  him  to  be 
other  than  he  appeared  to  her  trustful  eyes.  **  Yes,  with 
you  especially,"  she  insisted.  ''With  you,  of  all  the 
Russian  people  in  the  world.  ..."  A  faint  smile  dwelt 
for  a  moment  on  her  lips.  "I  am  like  poor  mother  in  a 
way.  I,  too,  seem  unable  to  give  up  our  beloved  dead, 
who,  don't  forget,  was  all  in  all  to  us.  I  don't  want  to 
abuse  your  sympathy;  but  you  must  understand  that 
it  is  in  you  that  we  can  find  all  that  is  left  of  his  generous 
soul." 

I  was  looking  at  him;  not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved 
in  the  least.  And  yet,  even  at  the  time,  I  did  not  suspect 
him  of  insensibility.  It  was  a  sort  of  rapt  expression. 
Then  he  stirred  slightly. 

"You  are  going,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch ?"  she  asked. 

"I!  Going?  Where?  Oh  yes,  but  I  must  tell  you 
first  ..."  His  voice  was  muffled,  and  he  forced  him- 
self to  produce  it  with  visible  repugnance,  as  if  speech 
were  something  disgusting  or  deadly.  "That  story,  you 
know — the  story  I  heard  this  afternoon.  ..." 

"I  know  the  story  already,"  she  said,  sadly. 

"You  know  it!  Have  you  correspondents  in  Peters- 
burg, too?" 

"No.  It's  Sophia  Antonovna.  I  have  seen  her  just 
now.  She  sends  you  her  greetings.  She  is  going  away 
to-morrow." 

He  had  lowered  at  last  his  fascinated  glance;  she,  too, 
was  looking  down,  and,  standing  thus  before  each  other 
in  the  glaring  light  between  the  four  bare  walls,  they 

342 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

seemed  brought  out  from  the  confused  immensity  of  the 
Eastern  borders  to  be  exposed  cruelly  to  the  observation 
of  my  Western  eyes.  And  I  observed  them.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  do.  My  existence  seemed  so  utterly  for- 
gotten by  these  two  that  I  dared  not  now  make  a  move- 
ment. And  I  thought  to  myself  that,  of  course,  they  had 
to  come  together,  the  sister  and  the  friend  of  that  dead 
man.  The  ideas,  the  hopes,  the  aspirations,  the  cause 
of  Freedom,  expressed  in  their  common  affection  for 
Victor  Haldin,  the  moral  victim  of  autocracy — all  this 
must  draw  them  to  each  other  fatally.  Her  very  igno- 
rance and  his  loneliness,  to  which  he  had  alluded  so 
strangely,  must  work  to  that  end.  And  indeed  I  saw 
that  the  work  was  done  already.  Of  course.  It  was 
manifest  that  they  must  have  been  thinking  of  each 
other  for  a  long  time  before  they  met.  She  had  the 
letter  from  that  beloved  brother  kindling  her  imagination 
by  the  severe  praise  attached  to  that  one  name;  and  it 
was  impossible  to  imagine  that  the  two  women  should 
have  been  kept  out  of  the  intercourse  between  such 
intimate  political  friends.  And  if  he  was  at  all  attached 
to  that  friend,  if  he  had  any  admiration  for  his  character, 
it  was  enough  to  guide  his  thoughts  to  that  friend's 
sister.  She  was  no  stranger  to  him  when  he  saw 
her  first;  and  to  see  that  exceptional  girl  was  enough. 
The  only  cause  for  surprise  was  his  gloomy  aloofness 
before  her  clearly  expressed  welcome.  But  he  was 
young,  and,  however  austere  and  devoted  to  his  revolu- 
tionary ideals,  he  was  not  blind.  The  period  of  reserve 
was  over;  he  was  coming  forward  in  his  own  way.  I 
could  not  mistake  the  significance  of  this  late  visit,  for 
in  what  he  had  to  say  there  was  nothing  urgent.  The 
true  cause  dawned  upon  me — he  had  discovered  that  he 
needed  her — whether  he  understood  it  or  not — and  she, 
perhaps,  was  moved  by  the  same  feeling.  It  was  the 
second  time  that  I  saw  them  together,  and  I  knew  that 
the  next  time  I  would  not  be  there,  either  remembered 
23  343 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

or  forgotten.     I  would  have  virtually  ceased  to  exist  for 
both  these  young  people. 

I  made  this  discovery  in  a  very  few  moments.  Mean- 
time, Nathalie  Haldin  was  telling  Razumov  briefly  of  our 
peregrinations  from  one  end  of  Geneva  to  the  other. 
While  speaking,  she  raised  her  hands  above  her  head  to 
untie  her  veil,  and  that  movement  displayed  for  an  in- 
stant the  strength  and  the  grace  of  her  youthful  figure, 
clad  in  the  simplest  of  mourning.  In  the  transparent 
shadow  the  hat-rim  threw  on  her  face,  her  gray  eyes  had 
an  enticing  luster.  Her  voice  with  its  unfeminine  yet 
exquisite  timbre  was  steady,  and  she  spoke  quickly,  frank, 
unembarrassed.  As  she  justified  her  action  by  the  mental 
state  of  her  mother,  a  spasm  of  pain  marred  the  generously 
confiding  harmony  of  her  features.  I  perceived  that 
with  his  downcast  eyes  he  had  the  air  of  a  man  who  is 
listening  to  a  strain  of  music  rather  than  to  articulated 
speech.  And  in  the  same  way,  after  she  had  ceased, 
he  seemed  to  listen,  yet  motionless  as  if  under  the 
spell  of  suggestive  sound.  He  came  to  himself,  mut- 
tering: 

"Yes,  yes.  She  had  not  shed  a  tear.  She  did  not 
seem  to  hear  what  I  was  saying.  I  might  have  told  her 
an3rthing.  She  looked  as  if  no  longer  belonging  to  this 
world." 

Miss  Haldin  gave  signs  of  profound  distress.  Her 
voice  faltered.  "You  don't  know  how  bad  it  has  come 
to  be.  She  expects  now  to  see  him!"  The  veil  dropped 
from  her  fingers  and  she  clasped  her  hands  in  anguish. 
"It  shall  end  by  her  seeing  him,"  she  cried. 

.Razumov  raised  his  head  sharply  and  attached  on  her 
a  prolonged,  thoughtful  glance. 

"H'm.  That's  very  possible,"  he  muttered,  in  a 
peculiar  tone,  as  if  giving  his  opinion  on  a  matter  of  fact. 
"I  wonder  what  ..."     He  checked  himself . 

"That  would  be  the  end.  Her  mind  shall  be  gone 
then,  and  her  spirit  will  follow." 

344 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Miss  Haldin  unclasped  her  hands  and  let  them  fall  by 
her  side. 

'*You  think  so?"  he  queried,  profoundly.  Miss  Hal- 
din's  lips  were  slightly  parted.  Something  unexpected 
and  unfathomable  in  that  young  man's  character  had 
fascinated  her  from  the  first.  "No!  There's  neither 
truth  nor  consolation  to  be  got  from  the  phantoms  of 
the  dead,"  he  added,  after  a  weighty  pause.  *'I  might 
have  told  her  something  true;  for  instance,  that  your 
brother  meant  to  save  his  life — to  escape.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  of  that.     But  I  did  not." 

''You  did  not!     But  why?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Other  thoughts  came  into  my  head," 
he  answered.  He  seemed  to  me  to  be  watching  himself 
inwardly,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  count  his  own 
heart-beats  while  his  eyes  never  for  a  moment  left  the 
face  of  the  girl.  "  You  were  not  there,"  he  continued. 
"I  had  made  up  my  mind  never  to  see  you  again.'* 

This  seemed  to  take  her  breath  away  for  a  moment. 

"You  .  .  .  How  is  it  possible?" 

"  You  may  well  ask.  .  .  .  However,  I  think  that  I  re- 
frained from  telling  your  mother  from  prudence.  I 
might  have  assured  her  that  in  the  last  conversation  he 
held  as  a  free  man  he  mentioned  you  both.  ..." 

"That  last  conversation  was  with  you,"  she  struck  in, 
in  her  deep,  moving  voice.     "Some  day  you  must  ..." 

"  It  was  with  me.  Of  you  he  said  that  you  had  trust- 
ful eyes.  And  why  I  have  not  been  able  to  forget  that 
phrase  I  don't  know.  It  meant  that  there  is  in  you  no 
guile,  no  deception,  no  falsehood,  no  suspicion — nothing 
in  your  heart  that  could  give  you  a  conception  of  a  liv- 
ing, acting,  speaking  lie  if  ever  it  came  in  your  way. 
That  you  were  a  predestined  victim.  .  .  .  What  a  devil- 
ish suggestion!" 

The  convulsive,  uncontrolled  tone  of  the  last  words 
disclosed  the  precarious  hold  he  had  over  himself.  It 
was  like  a  man  defying  his  own  dizziness  in  high  places 

345 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

and  tottering  suddenly  on  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice. 
Miss  Haldin  pressed  her  hand  to  her  breast.  The  dropped 
black  veil  lay  on  the  floor  between  them.  Her  move- 
ment steadied  him.  He  looked  intently  on  that  hand 
till  it  descended  slowly,  and  then  raised  again  his  eyes  to 
her  face.     But  he  did  not  give  her  time  to  speak. 

"  No  ?  You  don't  understand  ?  Very  well."  He  had 
recovered  his  calm  by  a  miracle  of  will.  "  So  you  talked 
with  Sophia  Antonovna?'* 

"Yes,  Sophia  Antonovna  told  me  .  .  ."  Miss  Haldin 
stopped,  wonder  growing  in  her  wide  eyes. 

"H'm.  That's  the  respectable  enemy,"  he  muttered, 
as  though  he  were  alone. 

The  tone  of  her  references  to  you  was  extremely 
friendly,"  remarked  Miss  Haldin,  after  waiting  for  a 
while. 

"Is  that  your  impression?  And  she  the  most  intel- 
ligent of  the  lot,  too.  Things  then  are  going  as  well 
as  possible.  Everything  conspires  to  ...  Ah !  These 
conspirators!"  he  said,  slowly,  with  an  accent  of  scorn. 
"They  would  get  hold  of  you  in  no  time!  You  know, 
Natalia  Viktorovna,  I  have  the  greatest  difficulty  in  sav- 
ing myself  from  the  superstition  of  an  active  Providence. 
It's  irresistible.  .  .  .  The  alternative,  of  course,  would 
be  the  personal  devil  of  our  simple  ancestors.  But  if  so, 
he  has  overdone  it  altogether — ^the  old  father  of  lies — 
our  national  patron — our  domestic  god  whom  we  take 
with  us  when  we  go  abroad.  He  has  overdone  it.  It 
seems  that  I  am  not  simple  enough.  .  .  .  That's  it!  I 
ought  to  have  known.  .  .  .  And  I  did  know  it,"  he 
added,  in  a  tone  of  poignant  distress  which  overcame 
my  astonishment. 

"This  man  is  deranged,"  I  said  to  myself,  very  much 
frightened. 

The  next  moment  he  gave  me  a  very  special  impression 
beyond  the  range  of  commonplace  definitions.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  stabbed  himself  outside  and  had  come  in 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

there  to  show  it — and  more  than  that,  as  though  he  were 
turning  the  knife  in  the  wound  and  watching  the  effect. 
That  was  the  impression,  rendered  in  physical  terms. 
One  could  not  defend  oneself  from  a  certain  amount 
of  pity.  But  it  was  for  Miss  Haldin,  already  so  tried  in 
her  deepest  affections,  that  I  felt  a  serious  concern.  Her 
attitude,  her  face,  expressed  compassion  struggling  with 
doubt  on  the  verge  of  terror. 

"What  is  it,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch?"  There  was  a  hint 
of  tenderness  in  that  cry.  He  only  stared  at  her  in  that 
complete  surrender  of  all  his  faculties  which  in  a  happy 
lover  would  have  had  the  name  of  ecstasy. 

"Why  are  you  looking  at  me  like  this,  Kirylo  Sidoro- 
vitch  ?  I  have  approached  you  frankly.  I  need  at  this 
time  to  see  clearly  in  myself.  ..."  She  ceased  for  a 
moment,  as  if  to  give  him  an  opportunity  to  utter  at  last 
some  word  worthy  of  her  exalted  trust  in  her  brother's 
friend.  His  silence  became  impressive,  like  a  sign  of 
some  momentous  resolution. 

In  the  end  Miss  Haldin  went  on,  appealingly : 

**  I  have  waited  for  you  anxiously.  But  now  that  you 
have  been  moved  to  come  to  us  in  your  kindness,  you 
alarm  me.  You  speak  obscurely.  It  seems  as  if  you 
were  keeping  back  something  from  me." 

"Tell  me,  Natalia  Viktorovna,"  he  was  heard  at  last  in 
a  strange,  unringing  voice,  "whom  did  you  see  in  that 
place?" 

She  was  startled  —  as  if  deceived  in  her  expecta- 
tions. 

"Where?  In  Peter  Ivanovitch*s  rooms?  There  was 
Mr.  Laspara  and  three  other  people." 

"Ha!  The  vanguard — ^the  forlorn  hope  of  the  great 
plot,"  he  commented  to  himself.  "Bearers  of  the  spark 
to  start  an  explosion  which  is  meant  to  change  funda- 
mentally the  lives  of  so  many  millions  in  order  that 
Peter  Ivanovitch  should  be  the  head  of  a  State." 

"You  are  testing  me,"  she  said.  "Our  dear  one  told 
347 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

me  once  to  remember  that  men  serve  always  something 
greater  than  themselves — ^the  idea." 

"Our  dear  one,"  he  repeated,  slowly.  The  effort  he 
made  to  appear  unmoved  absorbed  all  the  force  of  his 
soul.  He  stood  before  her  like  a  being  with  hardly  a 
breath  of  life.  His  eyes,  even,  as  under  great  physical 
suffering,  had  lost  all  their  fire.  "Ah!  your  brother  .  .  . 
but  on  your  lips,  in  your  voice  it  sounds  .  .  .  and,  in- 
deed, in  you  everything  is  divine  ...  I  wish  I  could  know 
the  innermost  depths  of  your  thoughts,  of  your  feelings." 

"But  why,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch?"  she  cried,  alarmed  by 
these  words  coming  out  of  strangely  lifeless  lips. 

"  Have  no  fear.  It  is  not  to  betray  you.  So  you  went 
there.  .  .  .  And  Sophia  Antonovna,  what  did  she  tell 
you  then?  ..." 

"She  said  very  little,  really.  She  knew  that  I  should 
hear  everything  from  you.  She  had  no  time  for  more 
than  a  few  words."  Miss  Hal  din's  voice  dropped,  and 
she  became  silent  for  a  moment.  "  The  man,  it  appears, 
has  taken  his  life,"  she  said,  sadly. 

"Tell  me,  Natalia  Viktorovna,"  he  asked,  after  a 
pause,  "do  you  believe  in  remorse?" 

"What  a  question!" 

"What  can  you  know  of  it?"  lie  muttered,  thickly. 
"It  is  not  for  such  as  you.  .  .  .  What  I  meant  to  ask 
was  whether  you  believed  in  the  efficacy  of  remorse." 

She  hesitated,  as  though  she  had  not  understood,  then 
her  face  lighted  up. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  firmly. 

"So  he  is  absolved.  Moreover,  that  Ziemianitch  was 
a  brute — a,  drunken  brute." 

A  shudder  passed  through  Nathalie  Haldin. 

"But  a  man  of  the  people,"  Razumov  went  on,  "to 
whom  they,  the  revolutionists,  tell  a  tale  of  sublime 
hopes.  Well,  the  people  must  be  forgiven.  .  .  .  And 
you  must  not  believe  all  you've  heard  from  that  source, 
either,"  he  added,  with  a  sort  of  sinister  reluctance. 

348 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"You  are  concealing  something  from  me,"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"Do  you,  Natalia  Viktorovna,  believe  in  the  duty  of 
revenge?" 

"  Listen,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  I  believe  that  the  future 
shall  be  merciful  to  us  all.  Revolutionist  and  reaction- 
ary, victim  and  executioner,  betrayer  and  betrayed,  they 
shall  all  be  pitied  together  when  the  light  breaks  on  our 
black  sky  at  last.  Pitied  and  forgotten;  for  without 
that  there  can  be  no  union  and  love." 

"I  hear.  No  revenge  for  you,  then?  Never?  Not 
the  least  bit  ?"  He  smiled  bitterly  with  his  colorless  lips. 
"  You,  yourself,  are  like  the  very  spirit  of  that  merciful 
future.  Strange  that  it  does  not  make  it  easier  .  .  . 
No !  But  suppose  that  the  real  betrayer  of  your  brother 
— Ziemianitch — had  a  part  in  it,  too,  but  insignificant  and 
quite  involuntary — suppose  that  he  was  a  young  man 
— educated — ^an  intellectual  worker — thoughtful — a  man 
your  brother  might  have  trusted  lightly,  perhaps,  but 
still — suppose  .  .  .     But  there's  a  whole  story  there." 

"And  you  know  the  story!     But  why,  then — ?" 

"  I  have  heard  it.  There  is  a  staircase  in  it,  and  even 
phantoms — but  that  does  not  matter  if  a  man  always 
serves  something  greater  than  himself — the  idea.  I 
wonder  who  is  the  greatest  victim  in  that  tale." 

"In  that  tale!"  Miss  Haldin  repeated.  She  seemed 
turned  into  stone. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  came  to  you?  It  is  simply  be- 
ca>use  there  is  no  one  anywhere  in  the  whole  great  world 
I  could  go  to.  Do  you  understand  what  I  say  ?  No  one 
to  go  to.  Do  you  conceive  the  desolation  of  the  thought : 
no  one — to — go — to?" 

She  was  so  utterly  misled  by  her  own  enthusiastic  in- 
terpretation of  two  lines  in  the  letter  of  a  visionary,  so 
much  already  under  the  spell  of  her  own  dread  of  lonely 
days  in  their  overshadowed  world  of  angry  strife,  that 
she  was  a  thousand  miles  from  the  glimpse  of  the  truth 

349 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

struggling  on  his  lips.  What  she  was  conscious  of  was 
the  obscure  form  of  his  suffering.  She  was  on  the  point 
of  extending  her  hand  to  him  impulsively  when  he  spoke 
again. 

*'  An  hour  after  I  saw  you  first  I  knew  how  it  would  be. 
The  terrors  of  remorse,  revenge,  confession,  anger,  hate, 
fear,  are  like  nothing  to  the  atrocious  temptation  which 
you  put  in  my  way  the  day  you  appeared  before  me  with 
your  voice,  with  your  face,  in  the  garden  of  that  ac- 
cursed villa." 

She  looked  utterly  bewildered  for  a  moment,  then,  with 
a  sort  of  swift  despair,  she  went  straight  to  the  point. 

**The  story,  Kirylo  Sidorovitch,  the  story!" 

"There  is  no  more  to  tell!"  He  made  a  movement 
forward  and  she  actually  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
to  push  him  away,  but  her  strength  failed  her  and  he 
kept  his  ground,  though  trembling  in  every  limb.  "It 
ends  here — on  this  very  spot.  The  man  stands  before 
you."  He  pressed  a  denunciatory  finger  to  his  breast 
with  force,  and  became  perfectly  still.  I  ran  forward, 
snatching  up  the  chair,  and  was  in  time  to  catch  hold 
of  Miss  Haldin  and  lower  her  down.  As  she  sank  into 
it  she  swung  half  round  on  my  arm  and  remained  averted 
from  us  both,  drooping  over  the  back.  He  looked  down 
at  her  with  a  horrible,  expressionless  tranquillity.  In- 
credulity, struggling  with  astonishment,  anger,  and  dis- 
gust, deprived  me  for  a  time  of  the  power  of  speech. 
Then  I  turned  on  him,  speaking  low  from  very  rage. 

"This  is  monstrous.  What  are  you  staying  for? 
Don't  let  her  catch  sight  of  you  again.  Go  away.  .  .  ." 
He  did  not  budge.  "Don't  you  understand  that  your 
presence  is  intolerable — even  to  me?  You've  behaved 
atrociously.  If  there's  any  sense  of  shame  in  you,  you 
will  go  at  once." 

Slowly  his  big  head,  his  sullen  eyes,  moved  in  my 
direction.  "How  did  this  old  man  come  here?"  he 
muttered,  astounded. 

3SO 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Suddenly  Miss  Haldin  sprang  up  from  the  chair,  with- 
out giving  us  a  glance,  made  a  few  steps  and  tottered. 
Forgetting  my  indignation,  and  even  the  man  himself,  I 
hurried  to  her  assistance.  I  took  her  by  the  arm,  and 
she  let  me  lead  her  into  the  drawing-room.  Away  from 
the  lamp,  in  the  deeper  dusk  of  the  distant  end,  the 
profile  of  Mrs.  Haldin,  her  hands,  her  whole  figure,  had 
the  stillness  of  a  somber  painting.  Miss  Haldin  stopped, 
leaning  on  my  arm,  and  without  a  word  pointed  mourn- 
fully at  the  tragic  immobility  of  her  mother,  who  seemed 
to  watch  a  beloved  head  lying  in  her  lap. 

That  gesture  had  an  unequaled  force  of  expression 
so  far-reaching  in  its  human  distress  that  one  could 
not  believe  that  it  pointed  out  merely  the  ruthless 
working  of  political  institutions.  After  assisting  Miss 
Haldin  to  the  sofa  I  turned  round  to  go  back  and  shut 
the  door,  but,  framed  in  the  opening,  in  the  searching 
glare  of  the  white  anteroom,  my  eyes  fell  on  Razumov, 
still  there,  standing  before  the  empty  chair,  as  if  rooted 
forever  to  the  spot  of  his  atrocious  confession.  A  wonder 
came  over  me  that  the  mysterious  force  which  had  torn 
it  out  of  him  had  failed  to  destroy  his  life,  to  shatter 
his  body.  It  was  there  unscathed.  I  could  see  the 
broad  line  of  his  shoulders,  his  dark  head,  the  amaz- 
ing immobility  of  his  limbs!  On  the  floor  near  his 
feet  the  veil  dropped  by  Miss  Haldin  looked  intensely 
black  in  the  white  crudity  of  the  light.  He  was  gazing 
down  at  it  spellbound.  Next  moment,  stooping  with  an 
incredible,  savage  swiftness,  he  snatched  it  up  and  pressed 
it  to  his  face  with  both  hands.  Something,  extreme  as- 
tonishment, perhaps,  dimmed  my  eyes,  so  that  he  seemed 
to  vanish  before  he  moved. 

The  slamming  of  the  outer  door  restored  my  sight,  and 
I  went  on  contemplating  the  empty  chair  in  the  empty 
anteroom.  The  meaning  of  what  I  had  seen  reached  my 
mind  with  a  staggering  shock.  I  seized  Nathalie  Haldin 
by  the  shoulder. 

351 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"That  miserable  wretch  has  carried  off  your  veil,"  I 
cried,  in  the  scared,  deadened  voice  of  an  awful  dis- 
covery.    "He  .  .  ." 

The  rest  remained  unspoken.  I  stepped  back  and 
looked  at  her,  in  silent  horror.  Her  hands  were  lying 
lifelessly,  palms  upward  on  her  lap ;  she  raised  her  gray 
eyes  slowly.  Shadows  seemed  to  come  and  go  in  them 
as  if  the  steady  flame  of  her  soul  had  been  made  to 
vacillate  at  last  in  the  cross-currents  of  poisoned  air  from 
the  corrupted  dark  immensity  claiming  her  for  its  own, 
where  virtues  themselves  fester  into  crimes  in  the  cyn- 
icism of  oppression  and  revolt. 

"It  is  impossible  to  be  more  unhappy.  ..."  The 
languid  whisper  of  her  voice  struck  me  with  dismay. 
"  I  could  almost  wish  myself  dead.  ...  I  feel  my  heart 
becoming  like  ice." 


IV 


RAZUMOV  walked  straight  home  on  the  wet,  glisten- 
ing pavement.  A  heavy  shower  passed  over  him; 
distant  lightning  played  faintly  against  the  fronts  of 
the  dumb  house  with  the  shuttered  shops  all  along  the 
Rue  du  Carouge;  and  now  and  then,  after  the  faint 
flash,  there  was  a  faint,  sleepy  rumble;  but  the  main 
forces  of  the  thunder-storm  remained  massed  down  the 
Rhone  Valley,  as  if  loath  to  attack  the  respectable  and 
passionless  abode  of  democratic  liberty,  the  serious- 
minded  town  of  dreary  hotels,  tendering  the  same  in- 
different, secretly  scornful  hospitality  to  tourists  of  all 
nations  and  to  international  conspirators  of  every  shade. 

The  owner  of  the  shop  was  making  ready  to  close  when 
Razumov  entered  and  without  a  word  extended  his 
hand  for  the  key  of  his  room.  On  reaching  it  for  him 
from  a  shelf  the  man  was  about  to  pass  a  small  joke 
as  to  taking  the  air  in  a  thunder-storm,  but,  after  look- 
ing at  the  face  of  his  lodger,  he  only  observed,  just  to 
say  something : 

"You've  got  very  wet." 

"Yes,  I  am  washed  clean,"  muttered  Razumov,  who 
was  dripping  from  head  to  foot,  and  passed  through  the 
inner  door  toward  the  staircase  leading  to  his  room. 

He  did  not  change  his  clothes,  but,  after  lighting  the 
candle,  took  off  his  watch  and  chain,  laid  them  on  the 
table,  and  sat  down  at  once  to  write.  The  book  of  his 
compromising  record  was  kept  in  a  locked  drawer,  which 
he  pulled  out  violently  and  did  not  even  trouble  to  push 
back  afterward. 

353 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

In  this  queer  pedantism  of  a  man  who  had  read, 
thought,  lived,  pen  in  hand,  there  is  the  sincerity  of  the 
attempt  to  grapple  by  the  same  means  with  another 
profounder  knowledge.  After  some  passages  which  have 
been  already  made  use  of  in  the  building  up  of  this  nar- 
rative, or  add  nothing  new  to  the  psychological  side  of 
this  disclosure  (there  is  even  one  more  allusion  to  the 
silver  medal  in  this  last  entry) ,  comes  a  page  and  a  half 
of  incoherent  writing  where  his  expression  is  baffled 
by  the  novelty  and  the  mysteriousness  of  that  side  of 
our  emotional  life  to  which  his  solitary  existence  was 
a  stranger.  Then  only  he  begins  to  address  directly  the 
reader  he  had  in  his  mind,  trying  to  express  in  broken 
sentences  full  of  wonder  and  awe  of  the  sovereign  (he 
uses  that  very  word)  power  of  her  person  over  his 
imagination,  in  which  lay  the  dormant  seed  of  her 
brother's  words. 

.  .  .  The  most  trustful  eyes  in  the  world,  he  said  of 
you  when  he  was  as  well  as  a  dead  man  already.  And 
when  you  stood  before  me  with  your  hand  extended  I 
remembered  the  very  sound  of  his  voice,  and  I  looked 
into  them — ^and  that  was  enough.  I  knew  that  some- 
thing had  happened,  but  I  did  not  know  then  what.  .  .  . 
But  don't  be  deceived,  Natalia  Viktorovna.  I  believed 
that  I  had  in  my  breast  nothing  but  an  inexhaustibly 
fund  of  anger  and  hate  for  you.  I  remembered  that  he 
had  looked  to  you  for  the  perpetuation  of  his  visionary 
soul.  He,  this  man  who  had  robbed  me  of  my  hard- 
working, purposeful  existence.  I,  too,  had  my  guiding 
idea,  and  remember  that  among  us  it  is  more  difficult 
to  lead  a  life  of  toil  and  self-denial  than  to  go  out  in  the 
street  and  kill  from  conviction.  But  enough  of  that. 
Hate  or  no  hate,  I  felt  at  once  that,  while  shunning  the 
sight  of  you,  I  could  never  succeed  in  driving  away  your 
image.  I  would  say,  addressing  that  dead  man:  "Is 
this  the  way  you  are  going  to  haunt  me?"  It  is  only 
later  on  that  I  understood — only  to-day,  only  a  few 

354 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

hours  ago.  What  could  I  have  known  of  what  was  tear- 
ing me  to  pieces  and  dragging  the  secret  forever  to  my 
lips  ?  You  were  appointed  to  undo  the  evil  by  making 
me  betray  myself  back  into  truth  and  peace.  You! 
And  you  have  done  it  in  the  same  way,  too,  in  which 
he  ruined  me:  by  forcing  upon  me  your  confidence. 
Only  what  I  detested  him  for  in  you  ended  by  appear- 
ing noble  and  exalted.  But,  I  repeat,  be  not  deceived. 
I  was  given  up  to  evil.  I  exalted  in  having  induced 
that  silly,  innocent  fool  to  steal  his  father's  money.  He 
was  a  fool,  but  not  a  thief.  I  made  him  one.  It  was 
necessary.  I  had  to  confirm  myself  in  my  contempt 
and  hate  for  what  I  betrayed.  I  have  suffered  from  as 
many  vipers  in  my  heart  as  any  social  democrat  of  them 
all — vanity,  ambitions,  jealousies,  shameful  desires,  evil 
passions  of  envy  and  revenge.  I  had  my  security  stolen 
from  me,  years  of  good  work,  my  best  hopes.  Listen — 
now  comes  the  true  confession.  The  other  was  nothing. 
To  save  me,  your  truthful  eyes  had  to  entice  my 
thought  to  the  very  edge  of  the  blackest  treachery.  I 
could  see  them  constantly  looking  at  me  with  the  con- 
fidence of  your  pure  heart,  that  had  not  been  touched 
by  evil  things.  Victor  Haldin  had  stolen  the  truth  of 
my  life  from  me,  who  had  nothing  else  in  the  world,  and 
he  boasted  of  living  on  through  you  on  this  earth  where 
I  had  no  place  to  lay  my  head  on.  She  will  marry  some 
day,  he  had  said — ^and  your  eyes  were  trustful.  And 
do  you  know  what  I  said  to  myself?  I  shall  steal  his 
sister's  soul  from  her.  When  we  met  that  first  morning 
in  the  gardens,  and  you  spoke  to  me  confidingly  in  the 
generosity  of  your  spirit,  I  was  thinking:  **  Yes,  he  him- 
self by  talking  of  her  trustful  eyes  has  delivered  her 
into  my  hands!"  If  you  could  have  looked  then  into 
my  heart  you  would  have  cried  out  with  terror  and 
disgust. 

Perhaps  no  one  will  believe  the  baseness  of  such  an 
intention  to  be  possible.     It's  certain  that,  when  we 

355 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

parted  that  morning,  I  gloated  over  it.  I  brooded  upon 
the  best  way.  The  old  man  you  introduced  me  to  in- 
sisted on  walking  with  me.  I  don't  know  who  he  is. 
He  talked  of  you,  of  your  lonely,  helpless  state,  and 
every  word  of  that  friend  of  yours  was  egging  me  on 
to  the  unpardonable  sin  of  stealing  a  soul.  Could  he 
have  been  the  devil  in  the  shape  of  an  old  Englishman  ? 
Natalia  Viktorovna,  I  was  possessed!  I  returned  to 
look  at  you  every  day,  and  drink  in  your  presence  the 
poison  of  my  infamous  purpose.  But  I  foresaw  diffi- 
culties. Then,  Sophia  Antonovna,  of  whom  I  was  not 
thinking — I  had  forgotten  her  existence — appears  sud- 
denly with  that  tale  from  St.  Petersburg.  .  .  .  The  only 
thing  needed  to  make  me  safe — a  trusted  revolutionist 
forever. 

It  was  as  if  Ziemianitch  had  hanged  himself  to  help 
me  on  to  further  crime.  The  strength  of  falsehood 
seemed  irresistible.  These  people  stood  doomed  by  the 
folly  and  the  illusion  that  was  in  them — they  being 
themselves  the  slaves  of  lies.  Natalia  Viktorovna,  I 
embraced  the  might  of  falsehood,  I  exulted  in  it — I 
gave  myself  up  to  it  for  a  time.  Who  could  have  re- 
sisted! You  yourself  were  the  prize  of  it.  I  sat  alone 
in  my  room  planning  a  life  the  very  thought  of  which 
makes  me  shudder  now  like  a  believer  tempted  to  an 
atrocious  sacrilege.  But  I  brooded  ardently  over  its 
images.  The  only  thing  was  that  there  seemed  to  be 
no  air  in  it.  And  also  I  was  afraid  of  your  mother.  I 
never  knew  mine.  I've  never  known  any  kind  of  love. 
There  is  something  in  the  mere  word.  ...  Of  you  I  was 
not  afraid — forgive  me  for  telling  you  this.  No,  not  of 
you.  You  were  truth  itself.  You  could  not  suspect 
me.  As  to  your  mother,  you  yourself  feared  already 
that  her  mind  had  given  way  from  grief.  Who  could 
believe  anything  against  me?  Had  not  Ziemianitch 
hanged  himself  from  remorse?  I  said  to  myself,  ''Let's 
put  it  to  the  test,  and  be  done  with  it  once  for  all." 

356 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

I  trembled  when  I  went  in;  but  your  mother  hardly- 
listened  to  what  I  was  saying  to  her,  and  in  a  little 
while  seemed  to  have  forgotten  my  very  existence.  I 
sat  looking  at  her.  There  was  no  longer  anything  be- 
tween you  and  me.  You  were  defenseless — ^and  soon, 
very  soon,  you  would  be  alone.  ...  I  thought  of  you. 
Defenseless.  For  days  you  have  talked  with  me — 
opening  your  heart.  I  remembered  the  shadow  of  your 
eyelashes  over  your  gray,  trustful  eyes.  And  your  pure 
forehead !  It  is  low,  like  the  forehead  of  a  statue — calm, 
unstained.  It  was  as  if  your  pure  brow  bore  a  light 
which  fell  on  me,  searched  my  heart  and  saved  me  from 
ignominy,  from  ultimate  undoing.  And  it  saved  you 
too.  Pardon  my  presumption.  But  there  was  that  in 
your  glances  which  seemed  to  tell  me  that  you  .  .  .  Your 
light!  Your  truth!  I  felt  that  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
had  ended  by  loving  you.  And  to  tell  you  that  I  must 
first  confess.     Confess,  go  out — ^and  perish. 

Suddenly  you  stood  before  me!  You  alone  in  all  the 
world  to  whom  I  must  confess.  You  fascinated  me — 
you  have  freed  me  from  the  blindness  of  anger  and  hate 
— ^the  truth  shining  in  you  drew  the  truth  out  of  me. 
Now  I  have  done  it;  and  as  I  write  here  I  am  in  the 
depths  of  anguish,  but  there  is  air  to  breathe  at  last — 
air!  And,  by-the-bye,  that  old  man  sprang  up  from 
somewhere  as  I  was  speaking  to  you  and  raged  at  me 
like  a  disappointed  devil.  I  suffer  horribly,  but  I  am 
not  in  despair.  There  is  only  one  more  thing  to  do  for 
me.  After  that — if  they  let  me — I  shall  go  away  and 
bury  myself  in  obscure  misery.  In  giving  Victor  Haldin 
up  it  was  myself,  after  all,  whom  I  have  betrayed  most 
basely.  You  must  believe  what  I  say  now — you  can't 
refuse  to  believe  this.  Most  basely.  It  is  through  you 
that  I  came  to  feel  this  so  deeply.  Therefore,  it  is  they 
and  not  I  who  have  the  right  on  their  side! — ^theirs  is 
the  strength  of  invisible  powers.  So  be  it.  Only  don't 
be  deceived,  Natalia  Viktorovna,  I  am  not  converted. 

357 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Have  I  then  the  soul  of  a  slave  ?  No !  I  am  independ- 
ent, and  therefore  perdition  is  my  lot. 

On  these  words  he  stopped  writing,  shut  the  book, 
and  wrapped  it  in  the  black  veil  he  had  carried  off; 
he  then  ransacked  the  drawers  for  paper  and  string, 
made  up  a  parcel,  which  he  addressed  to  Miss  Haldin, 
Boulevard  des  Philosophes,  and  then  flung  the  pen 
away  from  him  into  a  distant  corner. 

This  done,  he  sat  down  with  the  watch  before  him. 
He  could  have  gone  out  at  once,  but  the  hour  had  not 
struck  yet.  The  hour  would  be  midnight.  There  was 
no  reason  for  that  choice  except  that  the  facts  and  the 
words  of  a  certain  evening  in  his  past  were  timing  his 
conduct  in  the  present.  The  sudden  power  Nathalie 
Haldin  had  gained  over  him  he  ascribed  to  the  same 
cause.  "You  don't  walk  with  impunity  over  a  phan- 
tom's breast,"  he  heard  himself  mutter.  "Thus  he 
saves  me,"  he  thought,  suddenly.  "He  himself  the 
betrayed  man."  The  vivid  image  of  Miss  Haldin  seemed 
to  stand  by  him  watching  him  relentlessly.  She  was 
not  disturbing.  He  had  done  with  life,  and  his  thought 
even  in  her  presence  tried  to  take  an  impartial  survey. 
Now  his  scorn  extended  to  himself.  "I  had  neither  the 
simplicity  nor  the  courage  nor  the  self-possession  to  be 
a  scoundrel — or  an  exceptionally  able  man.  For  who 
with  us  in  Russia  is  to  tell  a  scoundrel  from  an  ex- 
ceptionally able  man?  ..." 

He  was  the  puppet  of  his  past,  because  at  the  very 
stroke  of  midnight  he  jumped  up  and  ran  swiftly  down- 
stairs with  no  thought  of  his  latch-key,  as  if  confident 
that,  by  the  power  of  destiny,  the  house  door  would  fly 
open  before  the  absolute  necessity  of  his  errand.  And 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  just  as  he  got  to  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs  it  was  opened  for  him  by  some  people  of  the 
house  coming  home  late — two  men  and  a  woman.  He 
slipped  out  through  them  into  the  street,  swept  then 
by  a  fitful  gust  of  wind.     They  were,  of  course,  very 

358 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

much  startled.  A  flash  of  lightning  enabled  them  to 
observe  him  walking  away  quickly.  One  of  the  men 
shouted,  and  was  starting  in  pursuit,  but  the  woman  had 
recognized  him.  "It's  all  right.  It's  only  that  young 
Russian  from  the  third  floor."  The  darkness  returned 
with  a  single  clap  of  thunder,  like  a  gun  fired  for  a 
warning  of  his  escape  from  the  prison  of  lies. 

He  must  have  heard  at  some  time  or  other,  and  now 
remembered  unconsciously,  that  there  was  to  be  a 
gathering  of  revolutionists  at  the  house  of  Julius  Laspara 
that  evening.  At  any  rate,  he  made  straight  for  the 
Laspara  house,  and  found  himself  without  surprise 
ringing  at  its  street  door,  which,  of  course,  was  closed. 
By  that  time  the  thunder-storm  had  attacked  in  earnest. 
The  steep  incline  of  the  street  ran  with  water,  the  thick 
fall  of  rain  enveloped  him  like  a  luminous  veil  in  the 
play  of  lightning.  He  was  perfectly  calm,  and,  between 
the  crashes,  listened  attentively  to  the  delicate  tinkling 
of  the  door-bell  somewhere  within  the  house. 

There  was  some  difficulty  before  he  was  admitted. 
His  person  was  not  known  to  that  one  of  the  guests  who 
had  volunteered  to  go  down-stairs  and  see  what  was  the 
matter.  Razumov  argued  with  him  patiently.  There 
could  be  no  harm  in  admitting  a  caller.  He  had  some- 
thing to  communicate  to  the  company  up-stairs. 

"Something  of  importance?" 

"That'll  be  for  the  hearers  to  judge." 

"Urgent?" 

"Without  a  moment's  delay." 

Meantime  one  of  the  Laspara  daughters  descended 
the  stairs,  small  lamp  in  hand,  in  a  light  but  grimy  and 
crumpled  gown,  which  seemed  to  hang  on  her  by  a 
miracle,  and  looking  more  than  ever  like  an  old  doll 
with  a  dusty  brown  wig  dragged  from  under  a  sofa. 
She  recognized  Razumov  at  once. 

"How  do  you  do?     Of  course  you  may  come  in." 

Following  her  light,  Razumov  climbed  two  flights  of 
24  359 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

stairs  from  the  lower  darkness.  Leaving  the  lamp  on 
a  bracket  on  the  landing,  she  opened  a  door  and  went  in, 
accompanied  by  the  skeptical  guest.  Razumov  entered 
last.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and,  stepping  to 
one  side,  put  his  back  against  the  wall. 

The  three  little  rooms  en  suite  with  low,  smoky 
ceilings  and  lit  by  paraffin  lamps,  were  crammed  with 
people.  Loud  talking  was  going  on  in  all  three,  and 
tea-glasses,  full,  half-full,  and  empty,  stood  everywhere, 
even  on  the  floor.  The  other  Laspara  girl  sat  dishev- 
eled and  languid  behind  an  enormous  samovar.  In 
the  inner  doorway  Razumov  had  a  glimpse  of  the  pro- 
tuberance of  a  large  stomach  which  he  recognized.  Only 
a  few  feet  from  him  Julius  Laspara  was  getting  down 
hurriedly  from  his  high  stool. 

The  appearance  of  the  midnight  visitor  caused  no 
small  sensation.  Laspara  is  very  summary  in  his  version 
of  that  night's  happenings.  After  some  words  of  greet- 
ing, disregarded  by  Razumov,  Laspara  (ignoring  pur- 
posely his  guest's  soaked  condition  and  his  extraordinary 
manner  of  presenting  himself)  mentioned  something 
about  writing  an  article.  He  was  growing  uneasy,  and 
Razumov  appeared  absent-minded.  "I  have  written 
already  all  I  shall  ever  write,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a 
little  laugh. 

The  whole  company's  attention  was  riveted  on  the 
new-comer,  dripping  with  water,  deadly  pale,  and  keep- 
ing his  position  against  the  wall.  Razumov  put  Las- 
para gently  aside,  as  though  he  wished  to  be  seen  from 
head  to  foot  by  everybody.  By  then  the  buzz  of  con- 
versation had  died  down  completely,  even  in  the  most 
distant  of  the  three  rooms.  The  doorway  facing 
Razumov  became  blocked  by  men  and  women,  who 
craned  their  necks  and  certainly  seemed  to  expect  some- 
thing startling  to  happen. 

A  squeaky,  insolent  declaration  was  heard  from  that 
group. 

360 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"  I  know  this  ridiculously  conceited  individual." 

"What  individual?"  asked  Razumov,  raising  his 
bowed  head,  and  searching  with  his  eyes  all  the  eyes 
fixed  upon  him.  An  intense,  surprised  silence  lasted 
for  a  time.     "If  it's  me  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  thinking  over  the  form  of  his  confession, 
and  found  it  suddenly,  unavoidably  suggested  by  the 
fateful  evening  of  his  life. 

"I  am  come  here,"  he  began,  in  a  clear  voice,  "to  talk 
of  an  individual  called  Ziemianitch.  Sophia  Antonovna 
has  informed  me  that  she  would  make  public  a  certain 
letter  from  Petersburg.  ..." 

"Sophia  Antonovna  left  us  early  in  the  evening," 
said  Laspara.    "It's  quite  correct.     Everybody  here  ..." 

"Very  well,"  Razumov  interrupted,  with  a  shade  of 
impatience,  for  his  heart  was  beating  strongly.  Then, 
mastering  his  voice  so  far  that  there  was  even  a  taint 
of  irony  in  his  clear,  forcible  enunciation:  "In  justice 
to  that  individual,  the  much  ill-used  peasant  Ziemian- 
itch, I  now  declare  solemnly  that  the  conclusions  of 
that  letter  calumniate  a  man  of  the  people — a  bright 
Russian  soul.  Ziemianitch  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
actual  arrest  of  Victor  Haldin." 

Razumov  dwelt  on  the  name  heavily,  and  then  waited 
till  the  faint,  mournful  murmur  which  greeted  it  died 
out. 

"Victor  Victorovitch  Haldin,"  he  began  again,  "act- 
ing with,  no  doubt,  noble-minded  imprudence,  sought 
refuge  with  a  certain  student  of  whose  opinions  he  knew 
nothing  but  what  his  own  illusions  suggested  to  his 
generous  heart.  It  was  an  unwise  display  of  confidence. 
But  I  am  not  here  to  appreciate  the  actions  of  Victor 
Haldin.  Am  I  to  tell  you  of  the  feelings  of  that  student, 
sought  out  in  his  obscure  solitude,  and  menaced  by  the 
complicity  forced  upon  him  ?  Am  I  to  tell  you  what  he 
did?     It's  a  rather  complicated  story.     In  the  end  he 

went  to  General  T himself,  and  said:   *I  have  the 

361 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

man  who  killed  P locked  up  in  my  room,  Victor 

Haldin,  a  student.'" 

A  great  buzz  arose,  in  which  Razumov  raised  his 
voice. 

"Observe — that  man  had  certain  honest  ideals  in 
view.     But  I  didn't  come  here  to  explain  him." 

"No.  But  you  must  explain  how  you  know  all  this," 
came  in  graver  tones  from  somebody. 

"A  vile  coward!"  This  simple  cry  vibrated  with  in- 
dignation.    "Name  him!"  shouted  other  voices. 

"What  are  you  clamoring  for?"  said  Razumov,  dis- 
dainfully, in  the  profound  silence  which  fell  on  the  rais- 
ing of  his  hand.  "Haven't  you  all  understood  that  I 
am  that  man?" 

Laspara  went  away  brusquely  from  his  side,  and 
climbed  upon  his  stool.  In  the  first  forward  surge  of 
people  toward  him  Razumov  expected  to  be  torn  to 
pieces,  but  they  fell  back  without  touching  him,  and 
nothing  came  of  it  but  noise.  It  was  bewildering.  His 
head  ached  terribly.  In  the  uproarious  confusion  of 
voices  he  made  out  several  times  the  name  of  Peter 
Ivanovitch,  the  word,  "Judgment,"  and  the  phrase, 
"But  this  is  a  confession,"  uttered  by  somebody  in  a 
desperate  shriek.  In  the  midst  of  the  tumult  a  young 
man,  younger  than  himself,  approached  him  with  blaz- 
ing eyes. 

"I  must  beg  you,"  he  said,  with  venomous  politeness, 
"to  be  good  enough  not  to  move  from  this  spot  till  you 
are  told  what  you  are  to  do." 

Razumov  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  came  voluntarily." 

"Maybe.  But  you  won't  go  out  till  you  are  per- 
mitted," retorted  the  other. 

He  beckoned  with  his  head,  calling  out:  "Louisa! 
Come,  Louisa !  Here,  please."  And  presently  one  of  the 
Laspara  girls  (they  had  been  staring  at  Razumov  from 
behind  the  samovar)  came  along,  trailing  a  bedraggled 

362 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

tail  of  dirty  flounces  and  dragging  with  her  a  chair, 
which  she  set  against  the  door,  and,  sitting  down  on  it, 
crossed  her  legs.  The  young  man  thanked  her  effusively 
and  rejoined  the  others  carrying  on  an  animated  discus- 
sion in  low  tones.     Razumov  lost  himself  for  a  moment. 

A  shrill  voice  screamed,  "Confession  or  no  confession, 
he's  a  police  spy!'* 

The  revolutionist  Nikita  had  pushed  his  way  in  front 
of  Razumov,  and  faced  him  with  his  big,  livid  cheeks, 
his  heavy  paunch,  bull  neck,  and  enormous  hands. 
Razumov  looked  at  the  famous  slayer  of  gendarmes  in 
silent  disgust. 

"And  what  are  you?"  he  said,  very  low,  then  shut  his 
eyes  and  rested  the  back  of  his  head  against  the  wall. 

"  It  would  be  better  for  you  to  depart  now,"  Razumov 
heard  a  mild,  sad  voice,  and  opened  his  eyes.  The 
gentle  speaker  was  an  elderly  man  with  a  great  brush  of 
fine  hair  making  a  silvery  halo  all  round  his  keen,  in- 
telligent face.  "Peter  Ivanovitch  shall  be  informed 
of  your  confession — ^and  you  shall  be  directed." 

Then,  turning  to  Nikita,  nicknamed  Mecator,  stand- 
ing by,  he  appealed  to  him  in  a  murmur. 

"What  else  can  we  do?  His  sincerity  apart,  he  can- 
not be  dangerous  any  longer." 

The  other  muttered:  "Better  make  sure  of  that  be- 
fore we  let  him  go.  Leave  that  to  me.  I  know  how 
to  deal  with  such  gentlemen." 

He  exchanged  meaning  glances  with  two  or  three 
men  who  nodded  slightly,  then  turning  roughly  to 
Razumov:  "You  heard?  You  are  not  wanted  here. 
Why  don't  you  get  out?" 

The  Laspara  girl  on  guard  rose  and  pulled  the  chair 
out  of  the  way  unemotionally.  She  gave  a  sleepy  stare 
to  Razumov,  who  started  round  the  room  and  passed 
slowly  by  her,  as  if  struck  by  some  sudden  thought. 

"I  beg  you  to  observe,"  he  said,  turning  in  the  door- 
way, "that  I  had  only  to  hold  my  tongue.     To-day,  of 

363 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

all  days  since  I  came  among  you,  I  was  made  safe — 
and  to-day  I  have  made  myself  free  from  falsehood,  from 
remorse — ^independent  of  every  single  human  being  on 
this  earth." 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  room  and  walked  toward 
the  stairs,  but  at  the  violent  crash  of  the  door  behind 
him  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  saw  that  Nikita, 
with  three  others,  had  followed  him  on  the  landing. 
''They  are  going  to  kill  me,  after  all,"  he  thought. 

Before  he  had  time  to  turn  and  confront  them  fairly 
they  had  set  on  him  with  a  rush.  He  was  driven  vio- 
lently against  the  wall.  **I  wonder  how,"  he  com- 
pleted his  thought. 

Nikita  said,  with  a  shrill  laugh,  right  in  his  face: 
"We  shall  make  you  harmless.     You  wait  a  bit." 

Razumov  did  not  struggle.  The  three  men  held  him 
pinned  against  the  wall,  while  Nikita,  taking  up  a 
position  a  little  on  one  side,  deliberately  swung  off 
widely  his  enormous  arm.  Razumov,  looking  for  a 
knife  in  his  hand,  saw  it  come  at  him  open,  unarmed, 
and  received  a  tremendous  blow  on  the  side  of  his  head 
over  his  ear.  At  the  same  time  he  heard  a  faint,  dull, 
detonating  sound,  as  if  some  one  had  fired  a  pistol  on 
the  other  side  of  the  wall.  A  raging  fury  awoke  in  him 
at  this  outrage.  The  people  in  Laspara's  rooms,  hold- 
ing their  breath,  listened  to  the  desperate  scuffling  of 
four  men  all  over  the  landing,  thuds  against  the  walls, 
a  terrible  crash  against  the  very  door,  then  a  fall,  as  if 
they  had  all  gone  down  together  with  a  violence  which 
seemed  to  shake  the  whole  house.  Razumov,  over- 
powered, breathless,  crushed  under  the  weight  of  his 
assailants,  saw  the  monstrous  Nikita  squatting  on  his 
heels  near  his  head,  while  the  others  held  him  down, 
kneeling  on  his  chest,  gripping  his  throat,  lying  across 
his  legs. 

''Turn  his  face  the  other  way,"  the  paunchy  terrorist 
directed  in  an  excited,  gleeful  squeak. 

364 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Razumov  could  struggle  no  longer.  He  was  ex- 
hausted; and,  passive,  he  had  to  watch  passively  the 
heavy,  open  hand  of  the  brute  swing  off  and  descend 
again  in  a  degrading  blow  over  his  eyes.  It  seemed  to 
split  his  head  in  two — and  all  at  once  the  men  holding 
him  became  perfectly  silent — soundless  as  shadows. 
In  silence  they  pulled  him  brutally  to  his  feet,  rushed 
with  him  noiselessly  down  the  staircase,  and,  opening 
the  door,  flung  him  out  headlong  into  the  street. 

He  fell  on  his  face,  and  at  once  rolled  over  and  over, 
helplessly  going  down  the  short  slope  together  with  the 
rush  of  running  rain-water.  He  came  to  a  rest  in  the 
roadway  of  the  street  at  the  bottom  lying  on  his  back, 
with  a  great  flash  of  lightning  in  his  eyes,  a  vivid,  silent 
flash  of  lightning  which  blinded  him  utterly.  He  picked 
himself  up  and  put  his  arm  over  his  eyes  to  recover  his 
sight.  Not  a  sound  reached  him  from  anywhere,  and 
he  began  to  walk  staggeringly  down  a  long,  empty  street. 
The  lightning  waved  and  darted  round  him  its  silent 
flames,  the  water  of  the  deluge  fell,  ran,  leaped,  drove, 
noiseless  like  the  drift  of  mist.  In  this  unearthly  still- 
ness his  footsteps  fell  silent  on  the  pavement,  while  a 
dumb  wind  drove  him  on  and  on,  like  a  lost  mortal 
in  a  phantom  world  ravaged  by  a  soundless  thunder- 
storm. God  only  knows  where  his  noiseless  feet  took 
him  to  that  night,  here  and  there,  and  back  again  with- 
out pause  or  rest.  Of  one  place  at  least  where  they 
did  lead  him  we  heard  afterward;  and  in  the  morning 
the  driver  of  the  first  south-shore  tram-car,  clanging 
his  bell  desperately,  saw  a  bedraggled,  soaked  man  with- 
out a  hat  walking  in  the  roadway  unsteadily  with  his 
head  down  step  right  in  front  of  his  car  and  go  under. 

When  they  picked  him  up,  with  two  broken  limbs 
and  a  crushed  side,  he  had  not  lost  consciousness.  It 
was  as  though  he  had  tumbled  smashing  himself  into 
a  world  of  mutes.  Silent  men,  moving  unheard,  lifted 
him  up,  laid  him  on  the  sidewalk,  gesticulating  and 

365 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

grimacing  round  him  their  alarm,  horror,  and  com- 
passion. A  red  face  with  mustaches  stooped  close 
over  him,  lips  moving,  eyes  rolling.  Razumov  tried 
hard  to  understand  the  reason  of  this  dumb  show.  To 
those  who  stood  around  him  the  features  of  that  stranger 
so  grievously  hurt  seemed  composed  in  meditation. 

Afterward  his  eyes  sent  out  at  them  a  look  of  fear  and 
closed  slowly.  They  stared.  Razumov  made  an  effort 
to  remember  some  French  words. 

"Je  suis  devenu  sourd,"  he  had  time  to  utter  feebly 
before  he  lost  consciousness. 

**Deaf,"  they  said  to  one  another;  "that's  why  he 
did  not  hear  the  car." 

They  carried  him  off  in  that  same  car.  Before  it 
started  on  its  journey  a  woman  in  a  shabby  black  dress, 
who  had  run  out  of  the  iron  gate  of  some  private  grounds 
up  the  road,  clambered  on  to  the  rear  platform,  and 
would  not  be  put  off. 

**I  am  a  relation,"  she  protested,  in  bad  French. 
**This  young  man  is  a  Russian,  and  I  am  his  relation." 

On  this  ground  they  let  her  have  her  way.  She  sat 
down  calmly  and  took  his  head  on  her  lap.  Her  scared, 
faded  eyes  avoided  looking  at  his  death -like  face.  At 
the  comer  of  a  street,  on  the  other  side  of  the  town,  a 
stretcher  met  the  car.  She  followed  it  to  the  door  of 
the  hospital,  where  they  let  her  come  in  and  see  him 
laid  on  a  bed.  Razumov's  new-found  relation  never 
shed  a  tear,  but  the  officials  had  some  difficulty  in  induc- 
ing her  to  go  away.  The  porter  observed  her  lingering  on 
the  opposite  pavement  for  a  long  time.  Suddenly,  as 
though  she  had  remembered  something,  she  ran  off. 

The  ardent  hater  of  all  finance  ministers,  the  slave 

of  Mme.  de  S ,  had  made  up  her  mind  to  offer  her 

resignation  as  lady  companion  to  the  Egeria  of  Peter 
Ivanovitch.     She  had  found  work  to  do  after  her  heart. 

But  hours  before,  while  the  thunder-storm  still  raged, 
there  had  been  in  the  rooms  of  Julius  Laspara  a  great 

366 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

sensation.  The  terrible  Nikita,  coming  from  the  land- 
ing, uplifted  his  squeaky  voice  in  horrible  glee  before  all 
the  company. 

"Razumov!  Mr.  Razumov!  The  wonderful  man! 
He  shall  never  be  any  use  for  a  spy  to  any  one.  He 
won't  talk  because  he  will  never  hear  anything  in  his 
life.  Not  a  thing!  I  have  burst  the  drums  of  his  ears. 
Oh,  you  may  trust  me.  I  know  the  trick.  He!  he! 
he!     I  know  the  trick." 


IT  was  nearly  a  week  after  her  mother's  funeral  that 
I  saw  Nathalie  Haldin  for  the  last  time. 

In  those  silent,  somber  days  the  doors  of  the  apart- 
ment on  the  Boulevard  des  Philosophes  were  closed  to 
every  one  but  myself.  I  trust  I  was  of  some  use,  if 
only  in  this,  that  I  alone  was  aware  of  the  incredible 
part  of  the  situation.  Miss  Haldin  nursed  her  mother 
alone  to  the  last  moment.  If  Razumov's  visit  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  Mrs.  Haldin's  end  (and  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  it  hastened  it  considerably),  it  is  because 
the  man  trusted  impulsively  by  the  ill-fated  Victor 
Haldin  had  failed  to  gain  the  confidence  of  Victor 
Haldin's  mother.  What  tale  precisely  he  told  her 
cannot  be  known — at  any  rate,  I  do  not  know  it — but 
to  me  she  seemed  to  die  from  the  shock  of  an  ultimate 
disappointment  borne  in  silence.  She  had  not  believed 
him.  Perhaps  she  could  not  longer  believe  any  one, 
and  consequently  had  nothing  to  say  to  any  one — not 
even  to  her  daughter.  I  suspect  that  Miss  Haldin  lived 
the  heaviest  hours  of  her  life  by  that  silent  death-bed.  I 
confess  I  was  angry  with  the  broken-hearted  old  woman 
passing  away  in  the  obstinacy  of  her  mute  distrust  of 
her  daughter. 

When  it  was  all  over  I  stood  aside.  Miss  Haldin  had 
her  compatriots  round  her  then.  A  great  number  of 
them  attended  the  funeral.  I  was  there,  too,  but  after- 
ward managed  to  keep  away  from  Miss  Haldin,  till  I 
received  a  short  note  rewarding  my  self-sacrifice:  *'It 
is  as  you  would  have  it.  I  am  going  back  to  Russia  at 
once.     My  mind  is  made  up.     Come  and  see  me." 

368 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

Verily,  it  was  a  reward  of  discretion.  I  went  without 
delay  to  receive  it.  The  apartment  on  the  Boulevard 
des  Philosophes  presented  the  dreary  signs  of  impend- 
ing abandonment.  It  looked  desolate  and  as  if  already 
empty  to  my  eyes. 

Standing,  we  exchanged  a  few  words  about  her 
health,  mine,  remarks  as  to  some  people  of  the  Russian 
colony;  and  then  Nathalie  Haldin,  establishing  me  on 
the  sofa,  began  to  talk  openly  of  her  future  work,  of 
her  plans.  It  was  all  to  be  as  I  had  wished  it.  And 
it  was  to  be  for  life.  We  should  never  see  each  other 
again.     Never! 

I  gathered  this  reward  to  my  breast.  Nathalie  Haldin 
looked  matured  by  her  open  and  secret  experiences. 
With  her  arms  folded  she  walked  up  and  down  the 
whole  length  of  the  room,  talking  slowly,  smooth- 
browed,  with  a  resolute  profile.  She  gave  me  a  new 
view  of  herself,  and  I  marveled  at  that  something  grave 
and  measured  in  her  voice,  in  her  movements,  in  her 
manner.  It  was  the  perfection  of  collected  independence. 
The  strength  of  her  nature  had  come  to  the  surface  be-, 
cause  the  obscure  depths  had  been  stirred.  / 

"We  can  talk  of  it  now,"  she  observed,  after  a  silencej 
and  stopping  short  before  me.  "Have  you  been  to  in- 
quire at  the  hospital  lately?" 

"Yes,  I  have."  And  as  she  looked  at  me  fixedly: 
"He  will  live,  the  doctors  say.  But  I  thought  that 
Tekla  .  .  ." 

"Tekla  has  not  been  near  me  for  several  days,"  ex- 
plained Miss  Haldin,  quickly.  "As  I  never  offered  to 
go  to  the  hospital  with  her,  she  thinks  that  I  have  no 
heart.     She  is  disillusioned  about  me." 

And  Miss  Haldin  smiled  faintly. 

"  Yes.  She  sits  with  him  as  long  and  as  often  as  they 
will  let  her,"  I  said.  "  She  says  she  must  never  abandon 
him,  never  as  long  as  she  lives.  He'll  need  somebody 
— a  hopeless  cripple,  and  stone-deaf  with  that." 

369 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

"Stone-deaf?  I  didn't  know,"  murmured  Nathalie 
Haldin. 

"He  is — it  seems  strange.  I  am  told  there  were  no 
apparent  injuries  to  the  head.  They  say,  too,  that  it 
is  not  very  likely  that  he  will  live  so  very  long  for  Tekla 
to  take  care  of  him." 

Miss  Haldin  shook  her  head. 

"While  there  are  travelers  ready  to  fall  by  the  way 
our  Tekla  shall  never  be  idle.  She  is  a  good  Samaritan 
by  an  irresistible  vocation.  The  revolutionists  didn't 
understand  her.  Fancy  a  devoted  creature  like  that 
being  employed  to  carry  about  documents  sewn  in  her 
dress  or  made  to  write  from  dictation!" 

"There  is  not  much  perspicacity  in  the  world." 

No  sooner  uttered  I  regretted  that  observation. 
Nathalie  Haldin,  looking  me  straight  in  the  face,  as- 
sented by  a  slight  movement  of  her  head.  She  was  not 
offended,  but,  turning  away,  began  to  pace  the  room 
again.  To  my  Western  eyes  she  seemed  to  be  getting 
farther  and  farther  from  me,  quite  beyond  my  reach 
now,  but  undiminished  in  the  increasing  distance.  I 
remained  silent,  as  though  it  were  hopeless  to  raise  my 
voice.  The  sound  of  hers  so  close  to  me  made  me  start 
a  little. 

"Tekla  saw  him  picked  up  after  the  accident?  The 
good  soul  never  explained  to  me  really  how  it  came 
about.  She  affirms  that  there  was  some  understanding 
between  them,  some  sort  of  compact,  that  in  any  sore 
need,  in  misfortune,  or  difficulty,  or  pain,  he  was  to 
come  to  her." 

"Was  there ?"  I  said.  " It  is  lucky  for  him  that  there 
was  then.  He'll  need  all  the  devotion  of  the  good 
Samaritan." 

It  was  a  fact  that  Tekla,  looking  out  of  her  window  at 
five  in  the  morning,  for  some  reason  or  other,  had  beheld 
Razumov  in  the  grounds  of  the  Chateau  Borel,  stand- 
ing stock-still,  bareheaded  in  the  rain,  at  the  foot  of 

370 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

the  terrace.  She  had  screamed  out  to  him  by  name 
to  know  what  was  the  matter.  He  never  even  raised 
his  head.  By  the  time  she  had  dressed  herself  suffi- 
ciently to  run  down-stairs  he  was  gone.  She  started 
in  pursuit,  and,  rushing  out  into  the  road,  came  almost 
directly  upon  the  arrested  tram-car  and  the  small  knot 
of  people  picking  up  Razumov.  That  much  Tekla  had 
told  me  herself  one  afternoon  we  happened  to  meet  at 
the  door  of  the  hospital,  and  without  any  kind  of  com- 
ment. But  I  did  not  want  to  meditate  very  long  on 
the  inwardness  of  this  strange  episode. 

"Yes,  Natalia  Viktorovna,  he  shall  need  somebody 
when  they  dismiss  him  on  crutches  and  stone-deaf  from 
the  hospital.  But  I  do  not  think  that  when  he  rushed 
like  an  escaped  madman  into  the  grounds  of  the  Chateau 
Borel  it  was  to  seek  the  help  of  that  good  Tekla." 

"  No !"  said  Nathalie,  stopping  short  before  me.  "  Per- 
haps not."  She  sat  down  and  leaned  her  head  on  her 
hand  thoughtfully. 

The  silence  lasted  for  several  minutes.  During  that 
time  I  remembered  the  evening  of  his  atrocious  con- 
fession— ^the  plaint  she  seemed  to  have  hardly  enough 
life  left  in  her  to  utter:  "It  is  impossible  to  be  more 
unhappy."  .  .  .  The  recollection  would  have  given  me 
a  shudder  if  I  had  not  been  lost  in  wonder  at  her  force 
and  her  tranquilHty.  There  was  no  longer  any  Nathalie 
Haldin,  because  she  had  completely  ceased  to  think  of 
herself.  It  was  a  great  victory,  a  characteristically 
Russian  exploit  in  self -suppression. 

She  recalled  me  to  myself  by  getting  up  suddenly  like 
a  person  who  has  come  to  a  decision.  She  walked  to 
the  writing-table,  now  stripped  of  all  the  small  objects 
associated  with  her  by  daily  use — a  mere  piece  of  dead 
furniture;  but  it  contained  something  living  still,  since 
she  took  from  a  recess  a  flat  parcel,  which  she  brought 
to  me. 

*'It's  a  book,"  she  said,  rather  abruptly.  "It  was 
371 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

sent  to  me.  I  told  you  nothing  at  the  time,  but  now 
I've  decided  to  leave  it  with  you.  I  have  the  right  to 
do  that.  It  was  sent  to  me.  It  is  mine.  You  may 
preserve  it  or  destroy  it  after  you  have  read  it.  And 
while  you  read  it  please  remember  that  I  was  defense- 
less.    And  that  he  .  .  ." 

"Defenseless!"  I  repeated,  surprised,  looking  hard  at 
her. 

''You'll  find  the  very  word  written  there,"  she  whis- 
pered. "Well,  it's  true!  I  was  defenseless.  But 
perhaps  you  were  able  to  see  that  for  yourself." 

Her  face  colored,  then  went  deadly  pale. 

"  In  justice  to  the  man,  I  want  you  to  remember  that 
I  was.     Oh!     I  was,  I  was!" 

I  rose,  a  little  shaky. 

"I  am  not  likely  to  forget  anything  you  say  at  this 
original  parting." 

Her  hand  fell  into  mine. 

"It's  difficult  to  believe  that  it  must  be  good-by  with 
us." 

She  returned  my  pressure,  and  our  hands  separated. 

"Yes.  I  am  leaving  here  to-morrow.  My  eyes  are 
open  at  last  and  my  hands  are  free  now.  As  for  the  rest, 
which  of  us  can  fail  to  hear  the  stifled  cry  of  our  great 
distress.     It  may  be  nothing  to  the  world — " 

"The  world  is  more  conscious  of  your  discordant 
voices,"  I  said.     "It  is  the  way  of  the  world." 

"Yes" — she  bowed  her  head  in  assent,  and  hesitated 
for  a  moment — "I  must  own  to  you  that  I  have  been 
thinking  of  the  time  when  all  discord  shall  be  silenced. 
Just  imagine !  The  tempest  of  blows  and  of  execrations 
is  over.  All  is  still ;  the  new  sun  is  rising,  and  the  weary 
men,  united  at  last,  taking  count  in  their  conscience  of 
the  ended  contest,  feel  saddened  by  their  victory,  be- 
cause so  many  ideas  have  perished  for  the  triumph  of 
one,  so  many  beliefs  have  abandoned  them  without  sup- 
port.    They  feel  alone  on  the  earth  and  gather  close 

2>7^ 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

together.  Yes,  there  must  be  many  bitter  hours!  But 
at  last  the  anguish  of  hearts  shall  be  extinguished  in 
love." 

And  on  this  last  word  of  her  wisdom,  a  word  so  sweet, 
so  bitter,  so  cruel  sometimes,  I  said  good-by  to  Nathalie 
Haldin.  It  is  hard  to  think  I  shall  never  look  any  more 
into  the  trustful  eyes  of  that  girl — wedded  to  an  in- 
vincible belief  in  the  advent  of  loving  accord  springing 
like  a  heavenly  flower  from  the  soil  of  men's  earth, 
soaked  in  blood,  torn  by  struggles,  watered  with  tears. 

It  must  be  understood  that  at  that  time  I  didn't 
know  anything  of  Mr.  Razumov's  confession  to  the 
assembled  revolutionists.  Nathalie  Haldin  might  have 
guessed  what  was  the  "one  thing  more"  which  remained 
for  him  to  do ;  but  this  my  Western  eyes  had  failed  to 
see. 

Tekla,    the    ex-lady   companion   of    Mme.  de  S 

haunted  his  bedside  at  the  hospital.  We  met  once  or 
twice  at  the  door  of  that  establishment,  but  on  these 
occasions  she  was  not  communicative.  She  gave  me 
news  of  Mr.  Razumov  as  concisely  as  possible.  He  was 
making  a  slow  recovery,  but  would  remain  a  hopeless 
cripple  all  his  life.  Personally,  I  never  went  near  him; 
I  never  saw  him  again  after  the  awful  evening  when  I 
stood  by,  a  watchful  but  ignored  spectator  of  his  scene 
with  Miss  Haldin.  He  was  in  due  course  discharged 
from  the  hospital,  and  his  ''relative" — so  I  was  told — 
had  carried  him  off  somewhere. 

My  information  was  completed  nearly  two  years  later. 
The  opportunity  certainly  was  not  ot  my  seeking;  it 
was  quite  accidentally  that  I  met  a  much  trusted  woman 
revolutionist  at  the  house  of  a  distinguished  Russian 
gentleman  of  liberal  convictions,  who  came  to  live  in 
Geneva  for  a  time. 

He  was  a  quite  different  sort  of  celebrity  from  Peter 
Ivanovitch — a  dark-haired  man  with  kind  eyes,  high- 

373 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

shouldered,  courteous,  and  with  something  hushed  and 
circumspect  in  his  manner.  He  approached  me,  choos- 
ing the  moment  when  there  was  no  one  near,  followed 
by  a  gray-haired,  alert  lady  in  a  crimson  blouse. 

"Our  Sophia  Antonovna  wishes  to  be  made  known 
to  you,"  he  addressed  me,  in  his  cautious  voice.  **And 
so  I  leave  you  two  to  have  a  talk  together." 

"I  would  never  have  intruded  myself  upon  your 
notice,"  the  gray-haired  lady  began  at  once,  "if  I  had 
not  been  charged  with  a  message  for  you." 

It  was  a  message  of  a  few  friendly  words  from  Nathalie 
Haldin.  Sophia  Antonovna  had  just  returned  from  a 
secret  excursion  into  Russia,  and  had  seen  Miss  Haldin. 
She  lived  in  a  town  "in  the  center"  sharing  her  com- 
passionate labors  between  the  horrors  of  overcrowded 
jails  and  the  heartrending  misery  of  bereaved  homes. 
She  did  not  spare  herself  in  good  service,  Sophia  An- 
tonovna assured  me. 

"She  has  a  faithful  soul,  an  undaunted  spirit,  and  an 
indefatigable  body,"  the  woman  revolutionist  summed 
it  all  up  with  a  touch  of  enthusiasm. 

A  conversation  thus  engaged  was  not  likely  to  drop 
from  want  of  interest  on  my  part.  We  went  to  sit 
apart  in  a  corner,  where  no  one  interrupted  us.  In  the 
course  of  our  talk  about  Miss  Haldin  Sophia  An- 
tonovna remarked,  suddenly: 

"I  suppose  you  remember  seeing  me  before?  That 
evening  when  Natalia  came  to  ask  Peter  Ivanovitch  for 
the  address  of  a  certain  Razumov,  that  young  man 
who  .  .  ." 

"I  remember  perfectly,"  I  said.  And  when  Sophia 
Antonovna  learned  that  I  had  in  my  possession  that 
young  man's  journal,  given  me  by  Miss  Haldin,  she  be- 
came intensely  interested,  and  did  not  conceal  her 
curiosity  to  see  the  document. 

I  offered  to  show  it  to  her,  and  she  at  once  offered  to 
.  call  on  me  next  day  for  that  purpose. 

374 

\ 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

She  turned  the  pages  avidly  for  an  hour  or  more,  and 
then  returned  me  the  book  with  a  faint  sigh.  While 
moving  about  Russia  she  had  seen  Razumov  too.  He 
lived  not  *'in  the  center,"  but  "in  the  south."  She 
described  to  me  a  little  two-roomed  house  in  the  suburb 
of  some  very  small  town,  hiding  within  the  high  plank 
fence  of  a  yard  overgrown  with  thistles.  He  was  crippled, 
ill,  getting  weaker  every  day,  and  Tekla,  the  Samaritan, 
tended  him  unweariedly  with  all  the  joy  of  natural  de- 
votion. There  was  nothing  in  that  task  to  become 
disillusioned  about. 

I  did  not  hide  from  Sophia  Antonovna  my  surprise 
that  she  should  have  visited  Mr.  Razumov.  I  did  not 
even  understand  the  motive.  But  she  informed  me 
that  she  was  not  the  only  one. 

''Some  of  us  always  go  to  see  him  when  passing 
through.  He  is  intelligent.  He  has  ideas.  .  .  .  He  talks 
well  too." 

Presently  I  heard,  for  the  first  time,  of  Razumov's 
public  confession  in  Laspara's  house.  Sophia  Anton- 
ovna gave  me  a  detailed  relation  of  what  had  occurred 
there.  Razumov  himself  had  told  her  all  about  it, 
most  minutely. 

Then  looking  hard  at  me  with  her  brilliant  black  eyes : 

"There  are  moments  of  evil  in  every  life.  A  false 
suggestion  enters  one's  brain,  and  then  fear  is  born — 
fear  of  oneself,  fear  for  oneself.  Or  else  a  false  courage 
— who  knows?  Well,  call  it  what  you  like;  but  tell  me, 
how  many  of  us  would  deliver  themselves  up  deliberate- 
ly to  perdition  (as  he  himself  says  in  that  book)  rather 
than  go  on  living  secretly  debased  in  their  own  eyes? 
How  many?  .  .  .  And  please  mark  this — he  was  safe 
when  he  did  it.  It  was  just  when  he  believed  himself 
safe  and  more — infinitely  more — when  the  possibility 
of  being  loved  by  that  admirable  girl  first  dawned  upon 
him,  that  he  discovered  that  his  bitterest  railings,  the 
worst  wickedness,  the  devil  work  of  his  hate  and  pride, 
25  375 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

could  never  cover  up  the  ignominy  of  the  exist- 
ence before  him.  There's  character  in  such  a  discov- 
ery." 

I  accepted  her  conclusion  in  silence.  Who  would  care 
to  question  the  grounds  of  forgiveness  or  compassion? 
However,  it  appeared  later  on  that  there  was  some 
compunction  too  in  the  charity  extended  by  the  revo- 
lutionary world  to  Razumov,  the  betrayer.  Sophia 
Antonovna  continued,  uneasily: 

"And  then,  you  know,  he  was  the  victim  of  an  out- 
rage. It  was  not  authorized.  Nothing  was  decided 
as  to  what  was  to  be  done  to  him.  He  had  confessed 
voluntarily.  And  that  Nikita,  who  burst  the  drums 
of  his  ears  purposely,  out  on  the  landing,  you  know,  as 
if  carried  away  by  indignation — well,  he  has  turned  out 
to  be  a  scoundrel  of  the  worst  kind — a  traitor  himself, 
a  betrayer — a  spy!  Razumov  told  me  he  had  charged 
him  with  it  by  a  sort  of  inspiration.  ..." 

"  I  had  a  glimpse  of  that  brute,"  I  said.  "  How  many 
of  you  could  have  been  deceived  for  half  a  day  passes 
my  comprehension!" 

She  interrupted  me. 

"There!  There!  Don't  talk  of  it.  The  first  time 
I  saw  him  I  too  was  appalled.  They  cried  me  down. 
We  were  always  telling  one  another,  *0h!  You  mustn't 
mind  his  appearance.'  And  then  he  was  always  ready 
to  kill.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  He  killed — yes!  in 
both  camps.     The  fiend!  .  .  ." 

And  Sophia  Antonovna,  after  mastering  the  angry 
trembling  of  her  lips,  told  me  a  very  queer  tale.  It  went 
that  Councilor  Mikulin,  traveling  in  Germany  (shortly 
after  Razumov's  disappearance  from  Geneva),  happened 
to  meet  Peter  Ivanovitch  in  a  railway  carriage.  Being 
alone  in  the  compartment,  these  two  talked  together 
half  the  night,  and  it  was  then  that  Mikulin,  the  police 
chief,  gave  a  hint  to  the  arch-revolutionist  as  to  the 
true  character  of  the  arch-slayer  of  gendarmes.    It  looks 

376 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

as  though  MikuUn  had  wanted  to  get  rid  of  that  partic- 
ular agent  of  his  own.  He  might  have  grown  tired  of 
him,  or  frightened  of  him.  It  must  also  be  said  that 
Mikulin  had  inherited  the  sinister  Nikita  from  his 
predecessor  in  office. 

And  this  story  too  I  received  without  comment  in 
my  character  of  a  mute  witness  of  things  Russian,  un- 
rolling their  Eastern  logic  before  my  Western  eyes.  But 
I  permitted  myself  a  question: 

"  Tell    me,    please,    Sophia    Antonovna,    did    Mme. 

de    S leave    all     her    fortune    to     Peter     Ivano- 

vitch?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it."  The  woman  revolutionist  shrugged 
her  shoulders  in  disgust.  "She  died  without  making 
a  will.  A  lot  of  nephews  and  nieces  came  down  from 
Petersburg  like  a  flock  of  vultures  and  fought  for  her 
money  among  themselves.  All  beastly  Kammerherrs 
and  maids  of  honor  —  abominable  court  flunkeys. 
Tfui!" 

"One  does  not  hear  much  of  Peter  Ivanovitch  now," 
I  remarked,  after  a  pause. 

"Peter  Ivanovitch,"  said  Sophia  Antonovna,  gravely, 
"has  united  himself  to  a  peasant  girl." 

I  was  truly  astonished. 

"What!     On  the  Riviera?" 

"What  nonsense!     Of  course  not." 

Sophia  Antonovna's  tone  was  slightly  tart. 

"Is  he,  then,  living  actually  in  Russia?  It's  a 
tremendous  risk — isn't  it?"  I  cried.  "And  all  for  the 
sake  of  a  peasant  girl.  Don't  you  think  ifs  very  wrong 
of  him?" 

Sophia  Antonovna  preserved  a  mysterious  silence  for 
a  while,  then  made  a  statement. 

"He  just  simply  adores  her." 

"  Does  he  ?  Well,  then,  I  hope  that  she  won't  hesitate 
to  beat  him." 

Sophia  Antonovna  got  up  and  wished  me  good-bye, 
377 


UNDER    WESTERN    EYES 

as  though  she  had  not  heard  a  word  of  my  impious  hope; 
but,  in  the  very  doorway,  where  I  attended  her,  she 
turned  round  for  an  instant,  and  declared  in  a  firm 
voice : 

"Peter  Ivanovitch  is  a  wonderful  man!" 


THE    END 


OH  \L^ 


NEWBEGIN'S 

315-317   SUTTER    ST. 
SAN    FRANCISCO 


